Not Alone
by Rhia474
Summary: "The first time he realizes just how much is wrong with the Herald of Andraste is when he catches her doing her own laundry." Cullen and Trevelyan, dealing with PTSD and past memories. Focusing on developing a relationship between a scarred war veteran who's coping as well as he's able, and a significantly younger Trevelyan who is just learning. Warning for PTSD-related trauma.
1. Wounds

**Not Alone**

Author's Note:

_This is the first in a series of interconnected pieces in the Dragon Age: Inquisition universe, featuring my Inquisitor, the proper Andrastian warrior, Roxanne Trevelyan and Commander Cullen. There is discussion of PTSD and triggers in this first piece and it will be a theme recurring: I always thought it was something that naturally connects a relatively young Trevelyan who just went through an absolutely harrowing experience that would break lesser people for certain, and a much more experienced ex-Templar who's been to hell and beyond several times in the past fifteen years of his life._

_The Chant quotes here are actually from the Bible: Psalm 104:13-15 and Isaiah 21:8 respectively. The title is borrowed from Sara Bareilles' song of the same name, while Cullen's 'Wounds' quote is from another song that became a theme-lead song for this pairing: Veteran of the Psychic Wars by Blue Oyster Cult (and I just dated myself with that one right there).There will be further songs and quotes hidden in subsequent chapters as well, but those two songs establish this particular pair quite well, I think._

_I don't want to cry when you go_  
_Stay a little longer, you know_  
_You're making me feel_  
_I'm not alone_  
-Sara Bareilles, Not Alone

_You see me now a veteran_  
_of a thousand psychic wars_  
_I've been living on the edge so long_  
_where the winds of limbo roar_  
_And I'm young enough to look at_  
_and far too old to see_  
_All the scars are on the inside_

-Blue Oyster Cult, Veteran of the Psychic Wars

The first time he realizes just how much is wrong with the Herald of Andraste is when he catches her doing her own laundry.

It's not normal that there's light coming out of the washhouse after the midnight change of the watch, and Cullen decides to investigate as he passes the courtyard in front of the Chantry and spots it. He is not particularly looking forward to this: just last week, he stumbled upon two recruits in there in a more than compromising situation, but _those_ at least kept the place dark, it was just the noises. Maker, they were _loud_.

He blinks slowly as he pushes the half-closed door in and steps through the threshold: it's not from tiredness, even though he could really use some sleep. The constant stream of refugees coming into Haven and organizing the fledgling Inquisition tasks them to near breaking point, and he has not seen his bed in about twenty hours now. No, it's the half-shadowed form of someone he absolutely didn't expect to see here, now, and in this position, hunched over one of the washing tubs, scrubbing and scrubbing at a piece of soapy clothing, concentration etching lines by the sides of her mouth, wrinkles on her forehead emphasizing the pale scar there.

"Herald?" he says hesitantly, letting go of his sword he palmed earlier, just in case. "Lady Trevelyan?"

"Oh." She drops what looks like a shirt in one hand and a scrubbing brush in the other, and turns towards him. "Knight-Commander, I did not hear you coming in, my apologies."

"Just Commander," he says almost mechanically correcting her, like many others: the Templar commission is gone, and his title is different as the general of the Inquisition's forces. "It wasn't my intention to disturb you, my lady, but… what is it that you are doing, may I ask?"

She is the only one matching him with the care with which she chooses her words, he already noticed that and it makes him even more self-conscious of his own humble origins. She always speaks slowly and with the crisp yet effortless enunciation of one from the Free Marches' nobility: Cullen has yet to hear her lifting her voice even once.

"It is the laundry room, is it not?" She cocks a brow at him; it's dark and thick, in stark contrast with the almost-white of her hair. It is striking, and, alongside the sharp green of her eyes, is a very recent change: in Leliana's files, the heir of the Bannorn of Ostwick had grey eyes and dark hair. She had to be identified by two acquaintances of the family amongst the survivors of the Rift explosion before they believed she was who she said she was. "I hardly had the luxury of clean shirts making sure the camps of the Hinterlands had enough to eat for the cold months; I only possess one spare, courtesy of the Lady Pentaghast, and both have plenty of grime and blood on them. And…", she pauses and Cullen, for the first time, detects some emotion on her voice, "I don't sleep as much as I used to lately." A tiny, elegant shrug. "Hence: laundry in the middle of the night. My apologies if I caused any alarm by lighting a candle so late at night here."

"It's not that." Cullen's eyes narrow: is it a trick of the candlelight, or do the Herald of Andraste's hands shake slightly? "It's just… surely there's someone to do this for you, my lady?"

She makes a little snorting noise in her throat: it is most unladylike, and more belonging to the warrior with a greatsword strapped on her hip than to a scion of a noble house.

"Commander," she says, enunciating clearly, "this is a refugee camp and the base of a fledgling organization intended to lift people up and to give them hope. _Not_ to ask them to do my laundry for me." She pauses. "Not to leave offerings of little treats and prayers for intercession on my pillow, kiss the hem of my cloak or ask me to kiss their children for luck either—and yet I endure those for the sake of what we're building here." She turns back to the tub, the line of her back is straight, unbending and rigid. "I draw the line at the laundry, though."

"This is…highly unusual." Cullen says: a little warning bell in the back of his mind goes off as he starts to put several little signs together. He has been commanding troops for a long time now: if nothing, the ten years in Kirkwall made him very much attuned to the mood and morale of those he fights with—and those senses are on full alert now. This woman stumbled out of the Fade scarce weeks ago, surviving an explosion of magical forces they still don't understand and which obliterated the Temple of the Sacred Ashes, Divine and most of her senior Chantry members included, and was immediately plunged into the heart of insane activity forming a new organization that practically put her on their banner, glowing green hand, matching eyes, white hair and all.

Cullen hears the whispers, always, as he goes on his rounds, to his meetings with the other Inquisition advisors, as he takes his meals in the common mess, as he collects his own laundry, as he attends the services at the Chantry, as he sweats and swears with his recruits on the practice grounds.

The whispers are everywhere.

_The Herald of Andraste. Sent by the Maker and His Bride to signal a new era, to bring hope when all else failed against darkness, corruption and wicked hearts. A true holy warrior, with the power to seal Rifts on the fabric of reality and to gentle grief-stricken hearts with a few well-placed words or a smile; a noble daughter of an old house, always soft-spoken, always polite, always dressed in simple black, no adornments on her doublet or armor…_

Always under scrutiny, always watched, never alone (in the cramped Haven accommodations even she has to share quarters with Cassandra), always expected to be what everyone _decided_ she was.

Right after enduring enough trauma to crack even a seasoned veteran. Cullen thinks about how Cassandra, how Leliana, how he himself were barely pulled back from the edge, how they had to find something to anchor them and were only able to due to their experience, training, discipline of long years…

This young woman had none of that.

_I should have anticipated it_, he thinks, almost angrily, as he watches her. _I should have seen it the way I always catch it in those under my command._

But she is not under his command: far from it. _She_ is the one everyone depends on. She is the one everyone _wants_ to be the fulchrum of the tide, the lynchpin, the bedrock. They are not saying it, of course, but Cullen can see their eyes lit up watching her, their hands reaching out when she passes by, their backs and heads held just a bit higher and straighter.

_The one sent by the Maker. Herald. Prophet._

_Our saint._

_Our savior._

He listens to his senses: the same way, it occurs to him, as Cassandra decided to listen to this woman, still shackled and slightly dazed, in that prison cell. As he, come think of it, decided to listen to Marian Hawke in Kirkwall that day.

"However," he continues slowly, reaching out and pulling one of the low stools standing in a corner towards him, "there's nothing in the books that says you should _not_ be doing it." He sits, back to the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, and hopes that the inevitable daily headache will be kinder than usual today. "I hope you don't mind if I keep you company."

She looks at him then, and finally there is something in the depths of that seemingly calm green gaze.

"I certainly can't dictate what the Commander of the Inquisition's forces does when he is not on duty," she offers, sounding almost tentative. Head slightly cocked to the side, the dusting of freckles around her upturned nose make her look absurdly young.

_She's barely twenty-two. Andraste protect us, she should be learning command as a young officer at a comfortable garrison posting, not killing demons, bandits, renegade mages and lyrium-crazed Templars by the dozen every week._

He watches her eyes narrow as a new thought occurs to her.

"I planned on turning in my mission report in the morning at the council table, but if you wish to hear it now, I can give you the short version while I finish this." She swishes her shirt in the water, waves her soapy brush in the air vaguely, and her voice cracks upwards just a little at the end.

_Yes, definitely the shakes._

_Why did I never ask Cassandra how she sleeps?_

"Not at all," Cullen says slowly and carefully. That also confirms what he suspects, falling neatly into the list of symptoms he is intimately familiar with since Kinloch Hold. "There is no rush at all, my lady."

She snorts again; this is new, the second time since she's here with him that she makes this sound.

"'My lady' is elbow-deep in sudsy, scummy water, Commander, scraping maker-knows-what off her only good shirt. I believe that form of address no longer applies and given the situation, we should progress onto using first names." She hisses and yanks a hand out of the tub: the brush flies high and Cullen ducks it as it barely misses his head, hits the wall with the distinct 'thud', speckles of suds hitting his face and cloak as it falls to the ground. "Scrubbing my knuckles bloody, too, apparently, and…oh, Maker, and I almost hit you with that too!"

Cullen makes a mental note ("_irritability and outbursts of anger_") and as he does so, hears the dispassionate voice of the infirmary Tranquil all those long years back, ticking off the causes and symptoms, standing by his own bedside.

"_Exposure to an highly stressful situation of exceptionally threatening or catastrophic nature; possible reliving of said events when repeatedly exposed to circumstances resembling or associated with the stressor event; sleep disturbance or sleep hours reduction; exaggerated startle response; feeling of detachment or estrangement from others…"_

Cullen is not good at relating to nobility, at dealing with women, Fade, dealing with _people_ in general except when it's about yelling at recruits to get in shape or discussing plans and strategy, he knows this. It really should be Mother Giselle sitting here now, and he briefly toys with the idea of just getting up and walking away, muttering about something he just remembered, and leaving a note to the Revered Mother to talk to her later about this.

He _almost_ walks.

What stops him is the knowledge, sudden and painful, like the headache that just arrived and slammed between his brows with the vengeance of an Arch-Demon : _he, however, is the one who_ _has been there._

_The one who has comparable enough experience to hers. The one who knows how to deal with what her mind tries to cope with now, falteringly and erratically, threatening to overwhelm her and make her break under the weight of it._

It's all too familiar.

_Wounds are all I'm made of, _he reminds himself, and lifts his head to look the Herald fully in the eyes.

"I don't think you know how to wash clothes, Roxanne," he says quietly, watching her eyes widen: he suspects not many outside of her immediate family use her given name, even though she just gave him permission. "I think you're doing this because you need to do something. All the time. To occupy your hands. To occupy your thoughts. To distract you from remembering when _that_ happened." He nods towards where a faint green wisp of light surrounds the odd-shaped mark on her left hand. "Listen: it is not…"

"Commander!" It's sharp, and loud, her voice now, but cracking: just like that forced calm on her face that, Cullen knows now, is merely a façade. "This is not…I am not…" She falters, and Cullen sees her physically staggering, putting a hand out to gain support from the wall. "I don't think it's…" she grinds out, contractions sounding strange coming from her mouth, and then she makes this odd, hitching, hiccupping sound, almost choking, and she crumples, slowly sliding down with her back to the washhouse's wall, knees coming up to her ears and arms circling them so she is one tight ball, slightly rocking side to side from the shakes that make her whole body tremble violently.

Cullen is _definitely_ familiar with that one, and is by her side in an eyeblink.

"Roxanne," he says her name, balancing it between firm and soothing just so; exactly as his own name was spoken to him back then by that Chantry sister. "Roxanne, listen to me. I know what's happening to you and I can help. Keep listening: I know this is bad now, but we'll get through this, all right?" He thinks he can see an almost imperceptible nod there between the tremors racking her whole body, but he can't be sure, and he can't quite touch her just yet, she is in too deep, so he squats down next to her, as close as he can without touching, pitches his voice a little bit further down and continues.

"I need you to try and breathe the way I tell you now: it helps with the shakes and clears your mind just enough that you can think. " He watches her very carefully as he leads her through the breathing exercises; this is the hard part, a clear sequence of actions she needs to take, following his lead to guide _herself_ out of the abyss her memories plunged her. It's _her_ choice, her decision to hear him, that's the part he can't help with, only hope for, and Cullen can't deny a small amount of pride flushing through him as with the last count of deeply exhaled breath he sees her head lift slowly, and a still-shaky, but almost normal deep sigh escaping her lips.

"There you go," he says, still in the same tone, but allowing a bit more warmth in it, because she's back and she needs it, along with some encouragement . "Good work, soldier."

She blinks, those strangely almond-shaped eyes looking confused for one more second, and he realizes just what he said.

"I mean…Herald. Lady Trevelyan. Roxanne." The words rush out, jumbled and breathy and Cullen curses himself silently: yes, this is why he really shouldn't be…

"'s allright," she mumbles, her normally clear speech all slurred. "'s what I am, 'fter all. Soldier of the Inqui..." Her breath hitches, but differently now. "Cold," she says, almost in a surprised voice. "So cold… like _there_."

"May I?" Cullen lifts an arm, keeping his face and voice carefully neutral: this was expected, and due to his experience with this kind of condition, he knows exactly how to do it. "Your body needs warmth after the…episode, it's normal."

"Oh." She sounds even younger now, despite everything, and he takes careful notes as she scoots closer to accept the warmth of him and his old cloak: the scar on her forehead, obviously from a slender Orlesian dueling sword he really need to ask her about one day; the nose that looks like it was broken at some point, dorsum flattened and a bit out of place (_another story there, obviously_); the almost-glowing green eyes occasionally flashing to silver with their uptilted corners suggesting faraway ancestors marrying exotic strangers (_just how many odd stories this woman has in her past_); the tightly coiled and pinned mass of silver-white hair that is so characteristic she took to covering it up with hoods or scarves most of the time when not in armor. "Thank you, Commander."

"As a matter of fact…" he says, curling the arm carefully around her shoulder as she stiffens a bit upon contact (also expected), and despite everything, his mouth twitches to a smile. "I would suggest, given the situation, that you start using my first name as well."

"Of course." She nods, head slightly lolling onto his shoulder as she turns into this warmth. "I beg your pardon, Comm… Cullen."

"All is good," he says, as encouraging as he can. "Can you talk a bit?"

"Well, I _can_ form words, obviously…" she chuffs, sounding a bit annoyed, then breaks off sharply. "Ah. I am being too literal. Yes, I feel better." She gathers her knees to the side, scooting even closer. "You obviously know what… what just happened to me. If I may ask: is that from battlefield experience?"

She is still so polite and formal, despite what she just went through: the smile, and that proud feeling, he finds, does not want to go away, despite the topic.

"I am familiar with your condition, Herald. Roxanne. Yes. It happens after extremely traumatic experiences, and can affect even the strongest warriors so please don't feel like this is a shameful…thing."

He falters again: once out of the immediate threat to sanity and safety, he really can't help but stumble with words again, because, really, they are not his strongest suit. He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand where the memory of Kirkwall in the form of a scar still itches on bad days and hears that odd snort from her that now he knows to be a sign of amusement she tends to hide.

"I appreciate the reassurance." Another shaky sigh. "And the way you…" She scrubs at her face with a hand, almost like a child. "I am normally not this…. Fallen-apart is a good description, I believe."

"I honestly don't believe anyone I know or know of could have done better in your stead." Cullen now has some steel in his voice. "You kept it together much longer than I ha…than I thought possible," he corrects hastily, and hopes that she didn't catch that. This is not the time to share remembrances: this is a time for her to keep on the road to which she found the way back.

"Solas had this new spell." Roxanne whispers, suddenly going still. "A lot more fire than usual, this time, and that mage simply… went up in flames and fell to the ground, all charred to cinder and ashes. Little wisps of smoke and magic leaked out of her, a kind of green that only comes from the Fade and some… some of _her,_ I guess, got on my shirt when she exploded finally and it just would not come out…"

_Maker's Breath_, Cullen swears silently, as he understands: during the last expedition to the Hinterlands to secure supplies and close some Rifts, her memories, normally blocked and tucked away, got triggered. Charred bodies and green light: it must have reminded her of whatever happened in the Temple of Sacred Ashes that day.

_It's a wonder it didn't happen earlier, really_. She kept it together as long as possible, until they were back here, in Haven, safely: until she could escape from everyone and occupy her mind and hands with something repetitive and mechanical in a vain attempt to forget…

_The way he kept cleaning and cleaning and cleaning his sword after that day in Kinloch Hold, hands raw and bleeding at the end, eyes red from concentration, back burning from bending over_…

"Listen," he says, with some urgency in his voice: he learned how to tamp down on those memories a while ago, albeit there are some issues now that he's no longer taking lyrium and the headaches are getting worse. "This is important, and I apologize right now ahead of time if I'm forceful, too upfront or rude: I dealt with this many times, as a Templar, commanding people I've led. You are not one of my green recruits, falling apart at a first kill or seeing blood magic up close and personal: you are the Herald of Andraste, carrying the Mark, and I need to know if you can… if I can talk to you about it, and tell you what I think you should do to learn to control it and get better." He pauses and looks at her, listening attentively. "I can't do that if I need to worry about calling you Your Worship or consider your family title, and…"

And there he goes, he thinks, mentally shaking his head again, because Maker, this is beyond awkward, and the headache just keeps relentlessly pounding beyond his brow, and Roxanne is now resting her head fully on his shoulder and it has been a long time any woman did that, regular visits to the _Rose_ back in Kirkwall for health reasons notwithstanding.

"It is perfectly all right if you leave out the titles, Cullen," she says into his shoulder just then. "I don't…I can't even _begin_ to thank you for this and you keep apologizing in a roundabout way for it." She sniffles. "If it makes you feel better, we can keep calling each other Commander and Herald in front of others and I am perfectly fine with 'my lady' and even 'Your Worship' if it helps the cause, but please. After I completely fell into pieces and almost threw a wet brush at you and currently quietly crying into your shoulder…"

She sniffles again: he roots around in the inside pocket sewn into the lining of his cloak, finds a clean handkerchief and hands it to her. It's at least clean, unlike the old cloak itself, patched a thousand times and worn thin: traces of ash and dust from the Temple still cling to it, but he does not have another to replace it with.

"Thank you." She takes it and wipes at her eyes before blowing her nose into it without any hesitation. Cullen had not thought about seeing the Herald of Andraste doing that tonight, or ever, for that matter. "I am sorry, I can't even remember when I cried last time," she says, nose still halfway in the fabric, voice muffled a bit. "A Trevelyan never shows emotions in front of others, we are always calm and even-keeled and perfectly in control, must be our devotion to the Chantry that keeps us so, but…" There's that face-scrubbing again. Her freckles, from this close, are strangely even-spaced and dark—Cullen suspects those are also somehow related to the events making her the Herald, they look like a spatter of some liquid across her cheeks and around the bottom of her nose. "And I can manage to do that most of the time, I think, but…" He has never heard her talk this much at once, and not in this manner: the speech patterns and the enunciation are still there, but she is not restrained or measured or calm right now. "Maker, I'm only twenty-two, my only claim to fame so far was winning a few duels at the Academy in Val Royeaux, getting into the finals of the Grand Tourney in Tantervale and being heir to a minor bannorn in the Free Marches. I don't…_We_ don't stand out, we blend in and be good Andrastians and avoid any…" her hand flutters around helplessly, indicating her changed appearance, the Mark, the Inquisition, Haven, the Breach in the distance, and the single candle-lit washhouse where they huddle together on the floor all at once, "…Any _situations_ like this." She shakes her head. "Josephine would have a field day seeing me like this, not to mention my mother."

"My lips are sealed." Cullen nods seriously while processing what he just heard and before he can consider his words a bit more carefully. "Our lady Ambassador will not hear anything about you using my handkerchief."

She looks at him incredulously exactly as he is about to kick himself mentally for just saying that.

"I'm sorry," he says immediately: Maker, she is way too fragile right now to appreciate his crude attempts at joking. "I didn't mean to imply that you were…"

"Cullen," she says his name again, and there is exasperation in her voice now, "I swear if you do not stop apologizing right now, I shall start calling you Commander again even when no one is around." She crams the handkerchief into the pocket of her obviously borrowed, too-big doublet. "Now: there was something you wished to tell me about how to handle my…condition, correct?" There is that edge of authority in her voice now: the voice of the Herald, Lady Trevelyan, She Who Was Sent Back. "If I am to be what everyone calls me, I need to know that." She pauses, looking at him expectantly, then adding, more softly. "Please?"

"Of course." He clears his throat: for a second there he might have considered them to be equals, but that edge of steel in her voice and brief flash of silver in her eyes reminded him that even with her fragile state of mind and currently curling up by his side like a frightened feline, Roxanne Trevelyan is someone to respect, admire and follow, not pity or pamper. "Coping is something that you'll need to learn and there are things that help," he continues, choosing his words with great care as Roxanne listens with furrowed brows. "You obviously will encounter events during the coming times that might…trigger another attack, there is no avoiding that given what we do here, so we need to see if there is something that takes your mind off of it. Do you have something that you actually…enjoyed doing before all this happened? Besides swordplay, I mean," he adds, wincing slightly at the clumsiness of the phrasing. "Erm, I don't want to imply that you…"

"It's all right, I don't think you mean I am …oh." She colors slightly, and Cullen feels her pulling away. He is confused: what, exactly, did he say? "Well. It's obviously not washing clothes," she continues, with just a hint of bite in her voice, "and I promise if you give me the name of your washerwoman I shall approach her as befits my station…" Cullen winces, "but in another life, back in Ostwick, I loved green things. My mother had a famous garden, still has, actually, for all that I know. Herbs, lavender mostly but others as well, and Orlesian roses, as many varieties as she could procure and that worked in our soil. I helped her when I was home, and…" She looks up, and tilts her head to the side. "Does that, perhaps, surprise you?"

"No, it's perfect," he says, with an inexplicable sense of relief that it was that easy. "Really, it is," he continues, relaxing his back a bit as he clarifies, "because, you see, working with your hands, and with soil and growing things: it's one of the best things you can do for this kind of…condition. We… me and a friend, I mean, set up a garden next to the Chantry in Kirkwall where I last served, for those Templars that needed…similar attention."

He explains what he has in mind: Haven is in need of various ingredients not being native of its environment, and in her travels she obviously is in a superb position to gather them, bring some back and then assist with the planting and caretaking as part of her efforts to control what ails her.

"He watereth the hills from his chambers:  
the earth is satisfied with the fruit of thy works.  
He causeth the grass to grow for the cattle,  
and herb for the service of man:  
that he may bring forth food out of the earth." Roxanne whispers when he finishes. "It is, indeed, a fitting task. I shall endeavor not to disappoint."

Cullen nods: it's no surprise that the Herald of Andraste quotes the Chant of Light, but that strange surge of pride in his guts is back, the feeling that she is _right_, and she is _good_ and he somehow, in a small part, helped her along on a road that will lead them out of the chaos and madness of the present.

"I shall see if some of the Chantry sisters can recommend suitable space for growing and perhaps find a family or two to assist with the caretaking." He taps the scar on the side of his lip in thought. "Mother Giselle, no doubt, should be able to assist with the recommendation: I assume Adan, our reluctant apothecary could, as well. You would only need to spend a few hours of your time there a week when you're here. I think." He decides to allow some of that pride show: after all, their chance meeting has been a success. "You are very strong: with dedicating some time to this while on your missions and recognizing the signs of agitation once back here and idle, you should be fine."

"Thank you." There is some color on her cheeks now, Cullen is glad to see. "I appreciate that you are saying that. May I…" she hesitates a second before continuing, "…Would it be all right if I continue to seek you out if I feel I need to…" She trails off, yet again looking uncertain and absurdly young for the responsibility thrust on her.

Almost exactly like him back _then_. That young, tortured Templar with the scars on his body and soul seems impossibly far away now: but Cullen realizes that this time, this time, the memories are there to aid, rather than taunt. So he borrows from Knight-Commander Greagoir's book, reaches out and places a hand on her shoulder, just like he did.

"You can always talk to me," he says, squeezing slightly (_there's really quite a lot of muscle on her_, he can't help but notice), and finds that the smile does not need to be forced, after all. "It would be my pleasure."

A week into the Herald departing to yet another of her Hinterland expeditions with Varric, Solas and Cassandra in tow, Scout Harding returns to Haven with a package for Cullen.

"For me?" He takes the surprisingly heavy parcel bundled in oilskin and raises an eyebrow at Harding. "From…?"

"Herald's compliments, sir." Harding salutes. "Her Worship wanted to make sure I give this to you personally. Now, if you'll excuse me, Commander, I have a trip to make to the Revered Mother Giselle with some boxes of herb samples and transplants and whatnots. Herald wants them all catalogued, samplings prepared for planting and such." She looks at the package, leans in and whispers, in that conspiratorial voice of hers that completely disregards rank and organization: Harding was never one for ceremony. "Master Tethras says please don't swear too loud when you open it."

He opens the piece of parchment tucked into the string that holds the thing together first: the handwriting is precise and evenly spaced, despite the poor quality of the ink and parchment.

"_To_ _Commander Cullen of the Inquisition's forces from Roxanne Trevelyan,_" it reads. "_I am well and I hope you are also_._ During our last conversation I could not help but notice that you had no opportunity to acquire a proper winter cloak as of yet. Therefore, I took the liberty of commissioning one of the refugees here at the Crossroads with some skill at tanning and tailoring to fashion something that might serve you well. The Hinterlands currently suffer an overabundance of bears, threatening livestock and people alike, but it appears that after some initial difficulties, our little group has found an effective way to ameliorate these conditions." _Cullen lowers the parchment for a second and shakes his head: the Herald certainly has a way with words that will never cease to amaze him.

"_It would give me comfort to know that you do not suffer the depredations of winter chills while serving the Inquisition," _the letter continues_." The Chant says, 'And he cried as a lion: O Lord, I stand continually upon the watch-tower in the day-time, and am set in my ward whole nights'. It does remind me of you. I hope you shall wear the enclosed cloak in the same spirit: I pray it awards you some measure of comfort and protection. May the Maker keep you."_

Inside the bundle is a full-length bearskin cloak, supple, warm and decorated with stitching at the edges. From the size, it took at least two animals to make it: most of the cloak has the fur on the inside to keep its wearer warm, except the shoulder piece where the tailor expertly joined two layers; fur on both the inside and the outside. Cullen wears it for the council meeting that night; Haven's chantry is cold, and he is too practical to consider refusing it.

Leliana claps her hands when she sees him, and that mischievous spark, missing since the Divine's death is briefly back in her eyes.

"Our lion!" she exclaims, and even Lady Montilyet's always proper face lightens up a bit. "How perfect; I should have thought about having one made for you earlier!"

"It's…bear." Cullen mutters, not that it matters: the second Leliana's mind latches onto an idea, it is _made_ , he realized this early on. "Not lion, I mean. It is…" He leaves it off there because he _just_ knows, with the sinking feeling in his stomach, from the way Leliana and Josephine exchange glances that there will be carefully cultivated and planted Remarks and Rumors about this, and 'Lion of the Inquisition' will become his semi-official title the way pretty much everyone calls Lady Trevelyan the Herald now.

The cloak does keep him warm, though. He finds that he quite likes it, despite the ridiculously huge shoulders.

It even has an inside pocket: and when he first reaches in it, he finds his washed handkerchief, folded around a sprig of elfroot.

The headache is better that night.


	2. How Is Your Druffalo?

**Author's notes:**

**This one is partially born from the desire to really intertwine the storylines and characters of the three games. I am working on a puzzle piece, if you will, that takes place back in Kirkwall and to which this work refers to: a continuation of my fic Times Gone By (or, 'what did Fenris do while away from Kirkwall in Act 3 of Dragon Age II'). Once you start thinking about the fact that both Varric and Cullen knew the Champion very well indeed, including his/her companions, there are all kinds of possibilities: this fic and the story arc I'm working on, explores one.**

**I am indebted to my husband yet again, whose experiments with various martial arts, armed and unarmed, create such delightful avenues to walk down on; the titular druffalo happens to be a reference to an early 15****th**** century fighting treatise's allegorical elephant as the embodiment of solid foundation.**

**The play Roxanne quotes is, of course, Edmond Rostand's wonderful **_**Cyrano de Bergerac**_**, a partial inspiration both for my Trevelyan's name and for a part of her personality and background.**

**The names for the Chantry services are drawn from the Liturgy of the Hours in the Catholic Church and her monastic tradition. I'm a medievalist by training: it's only natural.**

**Also, music: the scene of Cullen's run took form in my head while listening to Natalie Merchant's '**_**Soldier, Soldier'**_** as a kind of ambient current to Haven; give it a listen if you'd like.**

**As always, comments and suggestions are loved and filed accordingly upstairs in the rookery for future reference. Yeah, that's it.**

There's normally enough time before Lauds so Cullen can comfortably put in his running practice, towel off, get to service, and meet the recruits out in the field with his adjutant toting the sheaves of paperwork he needs to go through while observing, correcting and demonstrating. It's not an easy schedule, but he's used to it by now. It's more or less similar to what he did as Knight-Captain, then Knight-Commander in Kirkwall, and he can't see changing it soon just because he works for the Inquisition now. It's not that he's set in his habits in the manners of old men (_like Father_, sometimes he thinks as he remembers almost forgotten childhood memories), but he's a respectable man with respectable duties and the routine that goes with it (or so he likes to tell himself).

Haven's ramparts are not as grand as the Templar enclave in which he spent his last ten years, but they serve just fine for his low-speed runs at first light. This also affords him the opportunity to observe the transformation of a makeshift refugee camp spilling over a village to the fortified stronghold of the Inquisition as the days and weeks pass. The village is more cramped now that the first troops of the Templars start to trickle in, along with volunteers and contingents of troops from areas across Ferelden and Orlais: mostly token tens and dozens that various nobles can spare, but they do come. Very few of them are really capable, however, so he is never short of work. Cassandra is kind enough to help when she is not with the Herald on a mission, and between the two of them the army of the Inquisition slowly takes shape. He quietly observes how the people slowly lose that hopeless, vacant look in their eyes, their steps fill with purpose, their daily work routines get established, and Haven more and more starts to look like a little town with an adjacent army camp.

He walks down to the training grounds before anyone's there, sheds the warm cloak and armor at the small tent they erected for him and Cassandra as field office, and starts his run in the old grey Templar tunic and pants he kept back, almost-threadbare from washing and usage, but still perfectly serviceable, thank you very much, and just the thing to keep him warm enough. He jogs up the slope leading to the gates and turns to the right to run by the smithy where Harritt and his apprentices are already busy heating up the great forge. The master smith lifts a hand and salutes him respectfully, like all mornings since they arrived here; this serves as a sort of reminder to both of them that the Inquisition's army depends a lot on Harritt's shop and that he can thank them for keeping his supplies flowing.

Well, actually, it's mostly The Herald who does that. Somehow she manages not only to discover all those mines and supply routes during her travels, but she called her noble connections fully into play as soon as it was possible after couriers and Leliana's ravens resumed routes, and Haven is now starting to be on the map for traders and merchants. During her late night sessions with Ambassador Montilyet the two of them sit with tea and small cakes and map out possible allies and alliances for the future, quills scratching on parchment and heads, raven-dark and almost snow-white, bowed together in thought. He has no idea how she finds the time, really, between her forays into the Hinterlands and the Storm Coast, but it's almost as if she thrives on the realization that she can, in fact, effect change on her own, as opposed to merely being a scion of a minor house form the Free Marches.

They don't talk very often these days, apart from the regular council meetings that she attends when she's in Haven, and Cullen isn't sure if he should be glad about that or disappointed. He's pleased that the coping mechanism she chose for her condition is working: the Chantry herb garden is thriving, there's a refugee family helping the seriously overworked Sisters to tend it, and the Herald's supply crates from her trips arrive via Harding's scouts on a regular basis with specimens of various plants. She spends time there when not out on a mission: in fact, as soon as she was back from Therinfal Redoubt, she closeted herself there for hours. Mother Gisele told him later that the Herald worked in total silence in a corner of the garden planting some spindleweed from the Storm Coast: very messy conditions are required for that plant's survival, apparently, as it thrives mostly in water.

"_She practically built a small pond for it," Mother Giselle told Cullen just yesterday. "Dug the hole, lined with stones, made sure there was water by connecting it to the courtyard fountain, and all." The Revered Mother shook her head. "Spindleweed is a plant that grows best for the sorrowful, it is said amongst the countryfolk. She had seen things at Therinfal Redoubt that make this perfectly understandable."_

Cullen has no doubts that the Templar fortress was a harrowing experience: he has seen the reports, after all, and, more importantly, he talked to Cassandra and Varric about it. They assured him Roxanne would be fine, and Cassandra promised she'd watch out for any nightmares, but there's this nagging worry at the pit of his stomach now for some reason, as he thinks back at Mother Giselle's worried expression, and he resolves to find The Herald today and make sure they can talk.

He catches himself lengthening his strides and quickening the pace as he rounds the corner around the apothecary shop, taking the steep stairs by two where his path turns in front of the Chantry.

"Pushing it this morning, Commander?" He looks up just in time to veer to the right, avoiding collision with Sister Leliana. She is up early as well, a bag in her hands as she is making her way from the kitchens towards the makeshift rookery. The bag is slightly misshapen, and bloody.

"Mouse traps working, I take it?" He slows down to match her steps and nods towards her hand. "That was an elegant solution to two problems, Sister."

"Why, thank you, Commander." The slender woman who once was known as the Left Hand of the Divine and is now the fledgling Inquisition's spymaster adjusts her grip on the bag. "Mice amongst the stores are not something we should take lightly, I'm given to understand. Also, keeping my birds in excellent condition is important, so when your chief scout proposed this, I agreed. Get rid of vermin _and_ feed the ravens at the same time at no cost?" She dimples. "Lace Harding is apparently a woman of many talents. Will I see you at the council meeting tonight?"

"I will be there with the report on the new contingent of recruits." Cullen rubs the back of his neck. "Provided I don't commit suicide by then."

"That bad?" Leliana asks with a slight smile. They each appreciate what the other is doing, even though they'd never be able to do each other's job. The fact that both of them are from Ferelden and share some common friends helps in building the camaraderie: he normally would never allow his feelings to show this way, but with Leliana, it never felt awkward. "I assumed we received at least competent volunteers, no?"

"It's _not_ the volunteers," Cullen sighs, speeding up a bit as they near where Leliana's birds are kept. She keeps the pace easily. "It's the troops our so-called allies are sending: they are way too inexperienced and inferior both in equipment and skill. If we continue at this rate, I need most of the experienced soldiers to be promoted to sergeants so they can train the new ones."

"Hm." Leliana has that particular expression on her face that means she is contemplating something rather unpleasant but necessary. Or it might just been the blood of the mice in the bag. "That's clearly unacceptable. I might need to make a few inquiries around the Hinterlands. Perhaps even send a bird or two to Denerim: we can't afford to be hamstrung that way." There is bounce in her steps as she veers off and waves with her unoccupied hand. "Better give this to the birds and get them working, then. I'll see you after vespers bells, Commander."

Cullen shudders a bit as he imagines just what type of orders those birds will carry. Leliana _is_ effective, there's no doubt about that; and he reluctantly admits to himself as he turns on the corner by the quartermaster's office and takes the stairs down, that this time he fervently wishes she succeeds in telling all those so-called supporters of the Inquisition to shape up and quit sending the chaff of their crop of troops here.

_Speaking about shaping up, it's time to end dawdling_…He changes his speed again from jog to sprint; the last section of his morning route is coming up, and as it's usually pretty desolate at this hour, he can let go and not worry about anything but the burst of air in his lungs and the slightly increased beating of his heart. His boots pound the uneven pavement of the road leading to the training grounds, he nods at the guards in passing as he exits the lower gate again, feels the sweat pooling on his brow and his back and his muscles flex in the familiar rhythm of free running…

"Curly!" He is proud of himself not jumping in a most undignified manner as the old nickname rings out in the crisp mountain air. Varric Tethras, almost-merchant-prince of Kirkwall and general up-to-no-good is sitting on an upturned barrel at the corner of the training field, his faithful crossbow at his feet and that _special_ grin on his face that Cullen knows, from years back, means that he's clearly up to something. "You really push yourself almost as much as you push your recruits, don't you?." His eyes travel sideways to look at his companion, and Cullen understands that smile a bit better now. "See, I told you he'd be here if you don't hurry."

Cullen stops; this is highly unusual, but he'd be damned if he allowed his almost-sacred morning routine to be disturbed (_I am not too old and set in my ways, I am not, I am not_, the deep recesses of his mind echo the mantra). He breathes deep to keep the calmness that always finds him during these runs, tightens his abdominal muscles to snap his mind in focus and banish the headache, affixes the image of the spectacular mountains slowly emerging from the darkness behind it all, and bows the precise amount that Josephine determined is due to the Herald of Andraste from the inner council of the Inquisition.

"Herald." The familiar feel of exhaustion hits him just then, despite everything, and he leans instinctively forward, hands on thighs, breathing in and out for a second or two. "Forgive me; this is not exactly…"

"On the contrary, Commander." She inclines her head politely, bouncing ever so slightly on her feet for some reason. "It is I who is intruding: I woke up early today and Master Tethras here…" '_just Varric, for Andraste's sake'_ the dwarf mumbles under his breath, but she ignores the interruption, "…suggested to try out the new training dummies that arrived while I was at the Crossroads camp; he wanted some practice with the new arms Master Harritt installed for Bianca yesterday and I hoped to refresh some rustier moves of mine. " She gestures to where her greatsword rests next to Varric's crossbow. "We were hoping not to disturb you, and would be gone before Lauds starts, at any rate." She tilts her head to the side, questioning. "May we?"

_So that's what the bouncing was_, Cullen thinks, slightly ashamed, because of course now he recognizes the signs: he does the exact same thing when he can't get to his runs every now and often, Lady Montilyet even chided him once or twice when he was doing that in his chair at council meetings. '_I should think the matters of the Inquisition should not bore you that much, Commander'_ _she said, lush mouth turned slightly into a frown._

_Lady Montilyet, of course, would never understand_, Cullen now thinks, _but the Herald does_.

She is wearing her by now customary black; the doublet has the characteristic rust stains around the stays where armor gets attached to it and is way too big for her everywhere but at the shoulders; the pants are baggy and faded but carefully mended at the fraying seams at the side—the boots, however, look brand new, soft but sturdy, their brown a familiar hue and grain.

"More bears?" Cullen asks, nodding towards her feet before he could consider it, but the Herald's eyes twinkle a bit and she smiles, a rare sight.

"You would not believe it." She shakes her head: Cullen knows that story from her and Scout Harding's reports, but it _is_ nice to see The Herald smile, he has to admit, looking at her normally so serious face. "Please do not ask me about wolves either. I am estimating the herbivore population of the Hinterlands will undergo explosive growth due to severe lack of predators this season."

"They asked for it, really," Varric says, petting the stock of his crossbow fondly as he hops off the barrel. Cullen isn't sure if the more lighthearted tone The Herald employs all of a sudden is due to the fact that she takes Varric with her on her trips more often, but he can't help but approve if the result is _this_. "I swear it's almost as if they sense that mark on her: maybe they think it's a larger, more alpha predator coming to take their territory. The way they come at us every single time…" He waves a hand, airily, noticing the two of them staring at her. "What? So I can't discuss wildlife now?"

"I merely was not aware you were an expert on animal behavior," The Herald says crisply, one eyebrow lifted, and that mirrors Cullen's feeling so perfectly that he can't help but let a small chuckle escape his lips.

"Laugh now, Curly," says Varric darkly, slinging Bianca over his shoulder, "but next time you need a new cloak, you'll be coming to me for advice on where to find anything because all suitable animals were hunted to extinction by this lady here by then, and I'm just not sure we're quite up for dragons yet."

"_Dragons_?" Cullen inquires, feeling the sweat on his skin suddenly grow very cold. It is odd: he has no compunctions whatsoever regarding The Herald of Andraste going up against demons and lyrium-crazed Templar abominations, but the thought of a fire-breathing giant lizard swooping down on her suddenly makes his mouth go dry. "Have you…?"

"I know there is one on the Hinterlands." The Herald turns and picks her sword up: that sounds like part of an ongoing argument between the two of them, in Varric's roll of eyes is to be believed. "And I know enough to leave it alone. For now," she adds, with a slight frown on her face, and that does _not_ make Cullen any happier. "It stays well out of the populated areas, but I do not like how close it is to one of our advance camps. We shall see."

"Temperance and caution are some of your greatest virtues, Herald," Varric says, with considerable amount of relief and a huge grin. "I'm not getting any younger, you know, and after running ten years with someone who _did not_ share those characteristics, to say the least…"

"Oh, of course." She looks at the dwarf with a newfound expression_: that's new_, Cullen thinks, _anyone_ _treating Varric Tethras with respect_, but he says nothing, of course. "You were in Kirkwall with Ser Hawke." She pauses, and adds, looking at him now. "Both of you knew her, actually; at some later time I would be grateful if you could share some memories."

_Well. That's….unexpected_, Cullen thinks, and there's something nagging at the back of his mind about that, but he doesn't get the chance to dwell upon it, because The Herald bows to him then, with the effortless grace of one noble-born, the one that still makes him feel clumsy, bumbling and eighteen and his mind snaps back to the present with an almost audible sound. "Now, however, I must ask for your forgiveness; I really should work on my form and see if the practice dummies are sturdy enough for the Inquisition's soldiers."

She hesitates just a beat, head tilted sideways, as her thoughtful gaze rests on him for a tad longer than usual. Her Fade-green eyes hold a definite challenge, a steady pulse of _something. _ Cullen suddenly has the disconcerting feeling that he's _measured up_ now, and his breath quickens as he recognizes what's going on. The thrill of the battlefield goes through him in one lightning-quick strike.

_It's like being in front of a large bird of prey, _he thinks, and unselfconsciously rubs an ankle with the other foot which he's not done since he first stood in Knight-Commander Meredith's office the first time after arriving in Kirkwall.

It's not that he feels _threatened_, not exactly. It's just that…to borrow from Varric's wildlife comparisons earlier, after enough years one certainly recognizes when a large and extremely dangerous fellow predator who decided to turn into a sheepdog, shows up in one's territory.

"On the other hand," Roxanne Trevelyan says slowly, "as you _are_ here…May I assume that you still partake in arms drills with the recruits, Commander, and if so, would you care to share a bout with someone who favors a different weapon arrangement? Perhaps a slight change in difficulty would be welcome?"

It _is_ true that he did spar with Cassandra on occasion since he became Commander here, so he cannot in good conscience say that he is bored at practice, not exactly. But the challenge of it, certainly: she trained at the Val Royeaux Academy, he knows, and dueled enough to get that scar across her forehead, which, he knows from Leliana's files, marks her as one of the members of a small organization within the cadets there.

"Perhaps," he acknowledges with a slight dip of his head, and finds that he is already moving his body into the first stance without realizing it, assessing her frame with the dispassionate gaze of an opponent with cold eyes. "One exchange, no armor, to the yield?"

"Watch it, Curly." Varric's voice has a slight warning as his eyes dart between them. "You have not seen her fight yet; this is not..."

"Excellent." Roxanne cuts him off, her voice betraying just the slightest amount of satisfaction. "We shall start anon. Commander, your sword if you please?"

Cullen, as he turns towards the small tent in which he keeps his weapons and armor almost by reflex, belatedly starts to realize that apparently they already fought the first bout: she challenged, and he accepted almost immediately, because clearly, it's impossible that she really _could_ be just as good as…

_Damn it, Rutherford, _he swears at himself as he runs a towel across his face and neck, still damp with sweat from his run, grabs his doublet, sword and shield, _you are so bored of paperwork and yelling at undertrained levy troops and peasant volunteers that you are ready to take on the Herald of Andraste herself just because she engaged in a bit of alpha-baiting she learned in her Academy days? Almost fifteen years your junior and just recently over some pretty serious battlefield stress episodes, too, so she probably feels she needs to prove something. Have you no shame, really?_

And he finds that, oddly enough, he feels no shame, not the least. Instead, there is a certain sense of relief and the feeling that his day had just got inexplicably _better_.

"I assume you have no objections if I use this?" he says, lifting the kite-shaped shield he carried for a long time, repainted quite recently with the emblem of the Inquisition instead of the Templar sword he's so used to. "As we talked about different styles?"

"Oh, my." Roxanne flashes a grin, wide and almost startling on a face he used to seeing so serious all the time, and her voice drops to a throaty almost-purr. "What a big _shield_ you have there, Commander."

That startles him, again, almost physically rocking him back on his heel—until he hears Varric's chuckle and realizes that he's been had again.

"I told you, Curly," the dwarf says, deciding, apparently, that instead of trying out the modifications on his crossbow, he'll just observe them instead. He hops back on the barrel and shakes his head. "You have absolutely _no_ idea what you got yourself into. Don't say I didn't warn you."

_I see, _Cullen thinks, cautiously stretching his shoulders a bit and sliding his left arm into the leather straps of his shield. _So this is part of a game. She probably had to do it at the Academy all the time to prove her mettle, especially since she's normally prone to be thoughtful, measured and rather eloquent. That, most likely, marked her as inferior to the proud Orlesian aristocrats, along with her Free Marcher origins. _

Cullen is not used to verbal probes and insults prior to challenges and duels: as a Templar originally from Ferelden, he was never part of the culture that produces them. He is, however, intimately familiar with mental games: Mages and Templars, living together, inevitably developed something that could, in any other segment of society, be termed slightly unhealthy.

_Very well then: let's see if I still remember._

"It's not much, I know," he says, almost apologetically, sliding one foot forward and lifting his sword above his head. "_This_, on the other hand…"

"An overcompensator." Roxanne sighs, Varric guffaws, and Cullen concentrates on not dropping his sword out of sheer shock. "I would never have thought _that_ of you, Commander: you surely took vows of celibacy back in the Order?"

"Maker's Breath, Herald!" There's only so much he can take, and his voice rings out a bit louder than necessary as he swears. "First of all, celibacy was _not_ one of the…" He bites off the end of the sentence because Roxanne moves just then, greatsword lazily held by her right side with both hands whipping up next to her head lightning-fast. She steps forward and thrusts at his face with the same motion… and he has to twist and swing his shield up and around to block that, even before his mind processes what just happens.

"_Oh, la la." _She shakes her head, the phrase and the shrug accompanying it pure Orlais for a second: clearly an attempt to throw him again. "My sincere apologies for the impertinence of my questions, Commander," and she comes around again, fast, _so_ _fast, damnation,_ and he spins again as her blade rings against his shield the second time, not leaving him enough opening to counter with his own weapon, "but I must admit, the Fereldan accent inevitably led me to assume perhaps a bit…"

_I think I figured this out, _Cullen thinks grimly, as he adjusts his stance and begins to advance on her, resigning himself to a much longer bout than he originally expected. This is not a mere courtesy exchange, far from it. This is some kind of test, for her to see if he can be trusted…

He sees her eyes flicker just a second to the right this time and gets her blade with his own, but she sidesteps just _so_ again and he's left with his blade slicing empty air_…_

… if he's good enough not merely to be the leader of the Inquisition's troops but for her to truly trust him with everything flowing from him discovering her…_affliction_, and for him to see if she's really good enough to be Andraste's Chosen, to be the person all those people around them look up to, to be their mascot, for lack of a better word, and perhaps more.

He slows down a bit, reevaluates his tactics, and begins a slow circle to the left. She's tall for a woman, maybe even taller than him a bit, and those wide shoulders, even under the thick doublet, command respect.

"Templars do not take vows of celibacy," he says, crisply and evenly, using his 'commander talking to raw recruits, educating them about their duties' voice, "albeit marriage is discouraged, and fraternization amongst the ranks even more so. Our primarily vow is that of obedience, if you must know. Ah. That is, Templars' are, I mean…" he corrects himself quickly (he's not one of them, after all, any more) and curses inwardly for it, launching a quick attack of a shield bash-overhead strike combo to mask it…

… He has to find, however, that his blow is met by something that he could only describe as a rock wall with its foundations dug in the living rock of a mountainside.

His shield bounces back from Roxanne's blade with a force that almost breaks his arm. As he is almost thrown back and tries to recover his balance (_what was that, it was not something that is taught in Orlais for sure_, it flickers through his brain), he barely sees the pommel of her greatsword heading straight towards his face: she reversed her grip, grabbed the blade and the hilt and uses the entire weapon as an axe now.

There's no way he can pull up the shield arm quick enough, so he dives forward instead, trying the last resort of a headbutt and unbalancing via arms' tackle…

"_Oh, la, la_," she says again, a little bit more shakily this time, taking the full force of his body in her midsection, but _unmoving_, unshakeable, rooted to the ground, as Cullen sprawls, quite undignified, at her feet. "I am afraid your druffalo is not nearly strong enough, Commander," he hears dimly, though the haze of pain: he hopes the arm is merely sprained, but his forehead hit the ground rather hard, and the headache threatens to overwhelm his vision.

_What is it with the animal comparisons again?_

"'_Prince, pray Heaven for your soul's weal_!'" She is clearly quoting that from somewhere, in a singsong voice, stepping lightly aside: his head is hurting quite a lot. "' _I move a pace-lo, such! and such! Cut over-feint! What ho! You reel?'_" and Cullen feels the light tap of the edge of her sword at the exposed back of his neck in rhythm with her words again and again. "_'At the envoi's end, I touch_!'"

"Really, Herald?" Varric's voice is slightly disbelieving. "You had to quote an Orlesian play at him? While using _those_ moves?"

"I am somewhat certain Messere Fenris would not mind." Cullen is not quite sure he heard that right, but he sits up, rubbing at the back of his neck gingerly. It has been quite a while since he felt like he ran headfirst into a castle wall, but this comes as close as anything. "It's a respectable play about an excellent fighter." Her slightly frowning face appears in his line of sight now, as she crouches down next to him. "Commander, I apologize most sincerely, should I…"

"No apology needed." He holds up a hand. "As long as you explain what was it I just encountered. Your style, I mean. Please," he adds, wincing slightly. "And… the bit about Fenris."

"Oh." Her cheeks color and she bites her lip. "I am sorry; I assumed you knew…" She looks towards Varric and her eyes narrow. "It is quite possible that I shall contemplate dwarvicide in the near future."

"What?" Varric complains. "You can't expect me to remember every tiny detail about things that happened so long ago…"

"You wrote _books_ about what happened in Kirkwall, Master Tethras." Roxanne says darkly, straightening and reaching down to grab Cullen's hand to haul him to his feet. "Of course you remembered, you merely thought it would be hilarious not informing the Commander that I studied with Messere Fenris for two years when he was in…"

"In Ostwick as a private arms instructor at Bann Trevelyan's country estate," Cullen finishes, nodding, because all of a sudden he remembers, and the mosaic pieces all click together, and now it all makes sense.

_So that's why some of this was so eerily familiar_. Cullen remembers now some of the moves he saw from the ex-Tevinter slave in Kirkwall, on that long ago day when he inadvertedly assisted him and Hawke to take down Fenris' ex-owner. And that's a story, he decides, that maybe he _should_ share with Roxanne one of these days, because by the Maker, it was quite _something_, wasn't it?

Two years under Fenris' tutelage at the highly trainable and impressionable age of eighteen, plus her years as a cadet at the Imperial Academy in Val Royeaux: yes, she's dangerous all right. Cullen looks at her with newfound respect and makes a mental note to start to train a bit more frequently with Cassandra.

_Maker's Breath, maybe I should be daring and even ask the Herald when she's here to show some of those moves._

"I remember now: two sons and a daughter, he said upon his return," he says, cautiously flexing his shoulder (it will be all right), "and… that was you. The daughter, I mean," he adds, wincing inwardly.

_Social skills, Rutherford. Maybe ask Lady Montilyet in your spare time._

_And maybe the Fade will freeze over, too._

"That was, indeed, me." Roxanne bows from the waist slightly, sketching a graceful arc with her right arm. "I am fortunate enough to be able to combine Orlesian chevalier techniques with Tevinter unarmed wrestling and advanced greatsword rules, uniting two schools of combat as much as possible." She seems relaxed, utterly at ease and almost sparkling with charm and energy: Cullen finds that he cannot take his eyes off her. "Hence the comment about your druffalo, Commander: I was referring to the solidness of your stance, in case you were wondering. I do try to restrict my verbal baiting to respectable levels as much as possible."

"I didn't…" he starts, bristling. "I mean, I am sure you were not referring to… _Maker's Breath_!" he chuffs, and feels that even his ears are reddening.

"See?" Varric chuckles. "See what I mean? You _really_ shouldn't mess with her."

"No." Cullen rubs the back of his neck again, watching the sheepish grin on Roxanne's face, and decides, as the first bell for Lauds from the Chantry tower cleaves the cold air, that he is not done with this bout yet, after all. "No, I suppose there's no _messing_ here."


	3. Won In Fight

**Won In Fight**

**See the end of the work for more notes on the quotes.**

**Big thanks to Lisa, my lovely beta who puts up with my meandering thoughts and run-in sentences and missing commas.**

**I am playing around with the events as laid out in the game slightly, as well as dialogue choices and exact phrasing—as normally with my fics, I intend to remain close to the spirit and not merely provide an expanded script. Also, I wanted to show Cullen in action. Because reasons. ** **Also, I can****'****t seem to stop writing Varric and Cullen dialogs, old war buddies vibes and all.**

_Ne dred thee nought__  
__I have thee sought__  
__Bothen day and night__  
__To haven thee__  
__Well is me__  
__I have thee wonnen in fight_

_-Love Me Broughte, 14__th__ century English, from John Grimestone's Commonplace book (MS. Advocates' 18.7.21., National Library of Scotland) -_

The Chantry is full of scared, packed-in individuals, the scent of incense and candles is almost completely overwhelmed by the stink of sweat and fear. The cacophony of voices drowns out the Sisters' slow murmur of prayers by the Andraste statue's feet.

_War is ugly even when it__'__s fought out there on the battlefield_, Cullen thinks, _let alone when it strikes a town full of civilians who just a few hours ago were celebrating what they thought was an end to the largest of their fears._

"Not exactly the best moment in history, huh?" Varric says, appearing at his elbow. "It definitely reminds me of the last time you and I were thrown together under similar circumstances." Cullen grunts as the dwarf nods towards the altar. "Same sounds, same smells, even: and apparently, we're going up against mages again. Will this shit never end?"

"You tell me." Cullen watches as the rows of supplicants part between him and the statue, allowing the person kneeling directly in front of Andraste's feet to walk through. "Just this morning we were all full of hope."

"I hear you, Curly." Varric shoulders his crossbow. "But don't quite give up just yet. Just like back in Kirkwall, we again have a guardian angel to rely on."

"And apparently yet again, you exaggerate, Master Tethras." Roxanne Trevelyan is pale, but composed, as always. She finishes buckling her left gauntlet into place; a faint green glow emanates from her palm where the Mark still pulses, evoking memories of how she closed up the Rift over the ruins of the Temple last night. "Our hope should be in Him who preserved us this far."

It does not sound trite from her mouth, or oft-used, the way it does in so many pious sermons. The people around her, the scared, injured, trembling people of Haven, Cullen sees, take notice of her words, her calm, almost serene face, the way her armor gleams even in the scarce candlelight. Arms reach out, try to touch her arms, sides, even feet, as if hoping that whatever is suffusing her with such terrible certainty would make their plight easier to bear.

"Commander: what would you have of me?" she asks, Fade-green eyes seeking his. "I understand that the enemy is way too close for comfort, and that there is hardly an opportunity for negotiations: Cassandra shared the scout reports with me." She bows her head slightly towards the ex-Seeker who is moving up to her side now, just as battle-ready as her. "Could those trebuchets of yours be put to use, should an experienced small group ventured out and secured them for the operators?"

She speaks just as calmly and clearly as they were standing at some fancy Orlesian _soiree_ sipping from crystal goblets and nibbling delicacies. Cullen glimpses an appreciative smile on the face of the Orlesian court mage, Vivienne: of course she notices the tone as well. Composure above all: and Cullen would even believe that this is Roxanne Trevelyan's true demeanor has he not seen so many other facets of her in the near past. It almost makes him dizzy to remember.

_Just a week ago, this same woman, holding a broken young man in her arms, listening to him babble about his lady love that he__'__ll never see again: the Herald herself found her remains on the Hinterlands and brought her personal effects back to him. She bends her head as his grief-stricken and tear-smeared face slowly hits her shoulder at last and great sobs heave his chest: green eyes closed, her own expression is that of shared grief over two lives that would never unite in this world._

_Just two days ago, this same woman, kneeling in the Chantry garden, with dirt smudged all over her cheeks as she tries to wrestle a particularly heavy planter to a new place to make sure her elfroots get more sunlight, brows drawn, lips slightly parted and tip of tongue sticking out between them in concentration. She wipes a hand across her face as she looks up at him, and her deep sigh and blossoming smile tell him just how happy she is at that moment._

_Just a day ago this same woman, crawling forward on her knees, straining, left hand thrust forward, lips moving in words of the Chant first silently, then rising, rising, above the shrieks of demons and the hiss of the Fade itself though the green glow of the Breach._

_Maker, my enemies are abundant.  
Many are those who rise up against me.  
But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,  
Should they set themselves against me._

_Just an hour ago this same woman, standing outside the Chantry, looking over the crowds celebrating the closing of the Breach. She holds a tiny bunch of late-blooming wildflowers in her hand that one of the little girls working in the Chantry garden thrust in her hand when they returned from the Temple, triumphant. She laughs out loud with a slight and very Orlesian shrug of her shoulder, tucking one of the yellow blooms behind her ear. There is uproar of approval from the crowd, a thunder of applause and cheer, and she bows, face turning sincere again, hand raised to her heart and then reaching out towards the crowd._

Cullen sways. His insides are the familiar mess of churning, nausea-inducing emotions like always before battle with magic, made worse without the clarity of lyrium. The headache is a constant reminder behind his eyelashes now, his tongue is dry, his fingertips are numb and the fact that he would give his left foot for a tankard of ale right now alone should tell him just how bad shape he's in.

"Commander?" Roxanne says, a bit louder, and he blinks at her. "A moment to share battle plans, then?" he hears her saying, taking his arm and drawing him aside, away from the crowd and Varric and Cassandra and the others, to a quieter corner of the transept where a couple of Templars stand, conferring. They straighten, salute and withdraw as soon as they spot them. Her gauntleted hand is strong and steady on his arm, as it is always when she fights: no shakes or sign of weakness anywhere, just a slight frown of concern as she leans towards him.

"Cullen?" She calls him by his name, now: the way she fastidiously distinguishes between their public and private talks normally fills him with a slight awe. It also helps with breaking himself out of the haze of pain somewhat. "Any details on the enemy numbers especially the advance troops? I would need to know what we face so I can decide if we should be mage-heavy or if Cassandra should be supported by Varric or the Bull." She frowns. "I shall try to get those trebuchets defended as best as we can, so everyone can…"

"Of course, Herald," he finally grinds out, choking down bile: he can feel the oppressive cloud of so _much_ magic bearing down on their little town. Templar training and abilities do not slip away easily, and decades of lyrium in his system ebb away very slowly, making this all the more hard. "Forgive me. Roxanne." He reaches up to rub the back of his neck: the scar there is tingling too, just like the one on his lip, the other memory of Kirkwall. "Let's see: as far as…"

"Oh, _bother_," she says just then, looking at him with completely changed expression and her eyes widen. "Am I being an arse? Do you …Cullen, are you _all right_?"

And he can only shake his head, and hiss, face growing taut and cold as the blood rushes out, and know that this is about the point when all the rest of their recently allied Templars should feel it too: he still claims the dubious title of the most senior here with any experience with blood magic and thus his senses are more attuned to high concentrations of active magic.

"Too. Much. Magic," he grinds out, one hand up as he sways and finds one of the columns for support. The marble is cool even under his gloved fingertips, just like Roxanne's gauntlet under his shoulder, bearing him up with the same wiry strength she uses to wield her greatsword. From the corner of his eye he can see a couple of the older Templars staggering a bit too, and although it does not exactly fills him with satisfaction or relief, it is good to know that it's not withdrawal symptoms rendering him practically invalid.

_Well, not entirely, anyway._

"You need to get out there and make sure those trebuchets are firing, damn it," he hears himself from far away. "Their crews will be the first ones to face the enemy; they are way too exposed out there. I don't care who you take, as long as those bastards feel it." Propriety be damned, he glares at her as if she was one of his lieutenants and hisses. "You understand?"

"Perfectly, _Ser_!" She does turn out a strappy salute, he must admit and through the haze of pain Cullen feels that absurd surge of pride rise up again around his heart as the Herald slams a fist on her breastplate and bows. There is no doubt that she's a born warrior: that ferocious grin on her face chases away any doubt, also pushing the upswell of nausea away enough so that he can straighten and organize his features to a less contorted expression of pain. "You hold here; we shall be back." There's a hard, fast squeeze on his shoulder, then Roxanne spins on her heel and marches away, tone sharp as she raises her voice. "Cassandra, change of plans: your presence here will be required to coordinate with the Commander. Ser Blackwall can assist as required. Solas, can you provide some magical assistance in perhaps lessening the pressure on our Templars, we discussed it before, and your research was promising. Sera, any way you can sneak up to the bell tower and help in clearing a way to the gates for us? It should be fun. Cole, I am assuming you can pass on messages back and forth between the command staff here and us once we're out there, yes? Captain Iron Bull, with me if you please; your Chargers can report to Seeker Pentaghast in your absence, it will be perimeter duty most likely. Varric, saddle up, now is the chance to see how those new crossbow arms hold up under pressure. Vivienne, I would be grateful for your assistance: lots of blood magic is coming our way apparently. We shall secure the trebuchets on the north and south end of the curtain wall, and see if we can assist in safe evacuation of any civilians who are still out there. Any additional intelligence we gather during our foray shall be beneficial."

There is no trace of hesitation in her voice. She told them what she wants them to do _exactly_ the way they wanted to hear it, Cullen realizes, and catches Leliana's thoughtful frown on his right as she materializes almost out of the shadows with a cup of steaming tea that she presses into his hand.

"She's a natural, isn't she? Willowbark for your headache," she says curtly, and before he could reply, she flitters away to where the cages of her great black birds are stacked against the wall. Cullen's eyes close for a brief second as the bitter, bitter liquid hits his tongue like scalding fire, and he's grateful for its distraction. "Prayers also help, I'm told," Leliana calls back to him before she starts to fiddle with cage locks and talks to one of her agents in a low voice, and he can just hear the sound of the Chantry door slamming shut as the Herald exits with Varric, Iron Bull and Vivienne.

She is right, though. Prayers always helped to find his equilibrium; whether it is, as he thinks in his low moments, merely the rhythm of familiar words and the centering of his mind, or more, he does not dwell on now. The Maker and His prophet better take care of those who are laboring with swords, shields, bows and spells outside the Chantry now to protect the innocent within, and they probably have no need of the mumblings of a former Templar, but every little bit helps. So he drowns the tea in another gulp (one shall not pay attention to the fact that the lingering aftertaste is _almost_, but not quite, like that of lyrium) and strides to the altar in front. He kneels down at the feet of the statue amongst villagers, travelers, diplomats, templars and mages, bowing their heads equally in prayers, and his voice joins their choir of voices. Mother Giselle intones the words aloud, and they follow, voices rising and falling, accentuated with sniffles, coughs, the cries of infants and the wheezes of the old and infirm.

_Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,  
I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm.  
I shall endure.  
What you have created, no one can tear asunder._

_But that__'__s just it_. Cullen's thoughts wander, inevitably, as time passes, the words of the Chant are repeated over and over again, like a giant wheel turning, and they all await the return of those sent out to bring news of the enemy and their possible chances of survival. _The system of Circles was torn asunder, the Templar order was torn asunder, the Chantry itself was torn asunder when the sky ripped open and bled green all over Thedas_. _It seems that all creation is tottering on the brink of something monstrous, and precious few can stand in its way._ He can't help but remember the words of a play he'd seen in Kirkwall's old theater many years ago, dragged there by the Champion herself who insisted 'to beat some culture in you, Templar, even if it hurts'.

_The time is out of joint—__O curs__è__d spite,  
That ever I was born to set it right!_

She certainly tried. Marian Hawke was truly a force of nature, and, not for the first time, Cullen wonders what happened to her. Last he heard, just after he resigned his commission and accepted Cassandra's offer to become commander of the Inquisition's forces, the Viscountess of Kirkwall mysteriously disappeared from her city. He hopes that Leliana's spy network will be able to locate her…if they survive this.

_**When**__ we survive this_, he corrects himself, unbending his knees and straightening, aware of many eyes on him. _Chin up, Rutherford. You are, after all, the Lion of the Inquisition_.

_Lions never show fear. Lions never show how tired they are, how much they__'__d like to rest their forehead in their hand and massage their temples when the headache strikes. Their hands never tremble or shake, their eyes are always clear and their walk is always slow, measured and purposeful. They don__'__t show how much they__'__d like to run out there with nothing but a naked sword in their paws to protect those who cannot fight against the menace that encircles almost-indefensible Haven now. Generals don__'__t pull stunts like those anymore; this lion is, apparently, too old and respected for that._

_A symbol._

_Maker damn it, but I__'__m hardly a symbol. _He shakes his head, almost angry as he paces through the throng of people to the room where normally their council meetings are held, and which is now half-full of refugees as well. _All I am is a veteran ex-Templar who__'__s trying to atone for all the times when he was not doing the right things. _

_And that__'__s the short end of it. _

"_You accepted this position because it afforded an opportunity to do something worthwhile with people you could work with, a fresh start after the absolute disaster that was Kirkwall, to escape from the memories of blood magic, fire, red-lyrium-mad Commanders, shrieking abominations, and…_

…_cage made of blue crackling energy, mad swirl of sounds and smells, laughter and sighs and moans and pulsing flesh walls slowly closing and pain, pain, pain…_

_No._ He exhales slowly, leaning on his hands over the war table and is faintly aware that people in the room are staring at him. His knuckles are white against the polished oak and the table creaks slightly.

_We will not visit those memories again today._

He slowly shakes his head, breathing in and out in the familiar pattern _one-two-three, pause, one, one-two-three, pause, one_… A faint rumble emanates from his chest on each exhale and he's completely unaware just how leonine he seems now to all those in the room, the settling sun's last light across a narrow-slit window enveloping his hair in a gold halo, shoulders rising and falling rhythmically under his fur cloak.

_I shall endure._

_I always do._

"Commander!" A slightly high-pitched voice he recognizes as that of the boy who saved the Herald at Therinfal's Redoubt. "You must come."

"Cole?" He turns to find strange, pale eyes peering at him from under ash-blonde hair. "What news?"

"Pain." The strange boy tilts his head to the side and Cullen feels icy fingers along his spine. "You both hide it, but it's always there; for you, longer, but hers is fresh, _and so much_ of it. Makes you stronger, but brittle if harbored unaided. Lions need their packs." He blinks. "She is coming back, and brings others. Some are wounded."

"Damn." Cullen swears and starts moving, even before he realizes it, or before he processes just what he heard. "Mother Giselle!" he bellows as he strides towards the door. "Incoming invalids. Someone open that door and fast!" He sees Cassandra giving orders to the Templars stationed at the entry, sees Blackwall slam down the visor of his helmet and motion soldiers around himself as the great bar lifts and the door opens with a slow creak, letting in a gush of frigid mountain air, acrid smoke, and the scent of blood and fire and electricity and…

Cullen stares, hand gripping the pommel of his sword as the figures stumble in, clutching at each other: it's Lysette, the Templar sister from Denerim, armor dented, helmet missing, supporting the coughing form of the apothecarist Adan. Varric is next, dragging the slender Dalish elf with her stunted magic abilities and love of strange creatures (Minaeve, her name is, he recalls), and then there is the blacksmith, stomping and cursing, carrying the unconscious Flissa of the tavern in his arms, her face bloody and slack; and the hulking form of the Iron Bull as he shoves, literally _shoves_ the wiry quartermaster Threnn and skinny merchant Seggrit across the threshold with both arms, grunting, his chest heaving and boots red with blood up to his knees. Cullen does not even want to think about _that_.

_When did it get this bad out there?_

"A little help here, Curly!" Varric shouts and he releases Minaeve's arm, spins around, squints across his crossbow's aim and fires once, twice, three times in quick succession through the door opening. "Finding Chancellor Roderick was kind of unexpected; need some cover to drag him in, I think."

_The High Chancellor?_

_Shit_. Cullen swears mentally and his mind races even as he draws his sword and moves, along with Cassandra and Blackwall and a group of Templars, out the door. _He was supposed to get back to Val Royeaux right after the Breach was closed; he obviously encountered the enemy somewhere en route and turned back and…_

…and that's the end of that speculation, obviously, because there's the cacophony of battle right in front of him, and all his tiredness and pain is washed away as awareness floods him and everything seems crystal clear. Vivienne, arms extended, brows furrowed in concentration and blue lightning erupting from her fingertips and there's _another_ mage right next to her, one Cullen does not recognize at all, almost as extravagantly dressed as she (albeit the expensive ring velvet and fustian is torn at places and blotched with blood), male, with the fanciest moustache he has ever seen, flourishing his own staff, casting the green glow of protective shimmer around…

…the figure of the Herald who is supporting the sagging form of the High Chancellor with one arm, greatsword, bloody to the hilt, in the other, and three hulking, armor-clad figures ring them, advancing slowly, but inexorably…

"Inquisition!" Cullen hears himself cry and Cassandra picks it up as they surge forward. "With the Herald!"

His headache is forgotten as the familiar reflexes and the heat of battle take over. The shield he grabbed from the pile next to the door takes the brunt of a strike aimed at Roderick's head, and he thrusts his blade into the gap between breastplate and pauldron at the textbook angle, pushing down, so the attacked crushes to the ground before he even realizes what happened. That's all he has time for, that's all he needs to have time for, because that opponent is out of the fight now: time to pay attention to the others. He yanks his sword out and spins…

Cassandra slams bodily into the second one circling the Herald's side, grunting as a white spear of icy air hisses by her ear and coats the enemy's armor in frost: that was courtesy of Vivienne, he assumes. The Templars make busywork of the third one, but he sees more figures gather at the corner of the marketplace, beyond the burning façade of the inn…

"Get back!" he snarls over his shoulder and sees that the two mages don't have to be told twice, with the Templars covering their retreat. Cassandra stops by the Herald's other side and assesses her with cool eyes.

"Any of that blood yours?" she asks, thrusting her chin towards her side.

"Nothing a decent potion would not fix, albeit we shall tend to His Eminence first. Harritt does good work with armor." Her voice comes hollow from under her helmet, but the words are clear and crisp, if a bit out of breath. "Let us continue this behind closed doors, if that is all right with everyone." Roderick lets out a low moan. "I am afraid we lost His Eminence's entourage but managed to pick up some arcane support on the way."

"Arcane… here, Your Eminence, we've got you." Cullen hoists the sagging Roderick's left arm over his shoulder and between him and the Herald they manage to turn around and almost-jog to the door. "Ah, you mean the mage."

"We have met him before," Roxanne says, breathing just a bit faster than normal. "During our short-lived visit to Redcliffe. " Cullen tries to recall details of that event from her report, but it's somewhat hard to concentrate when dragging a semi-conscious Chantry official across the pavement and expecting enemy arrows in the back any second. Luckily, Roxanne offers more details. "He was the Tevene warning us about Venatori involvement with our enemy."

The part of Cullen's brain that never forgets a name wakes up.

"Dorian Pavus of Tevinter," he nods, and is somewhat relieved that they are through the threshold as two soldiers slam it shut behind them. "How in the Fade did he get here and what does he want?"

"He knows what's coming." Cole appears at Cullen's elbow, without warning, and takes the weight of the High Chancellor on his narrow shoulders with surprising strength. "Doesn't want any part of it; corrupted mages, blood and fire, ashes of former glory like bitter herbs in his mouth." Roderick moans, barely conscious, and Cole stops, a sad little smile forming on his lips. "Not the same," he says, more gently, and Cullen's head spins a little because for just a second he thought the boy was responding to something the High Chancellor never _actually_ said. "Let us get you to the healers."

"Cole means we are gaining an ally who knows the enemy and his plans for us." Roxanne unbuckles her helmet and as it comes off, Cullen can see the dark circles of exhaustion under her eyes. Cassandra, Leliana and Josephine gather around them, they form a circle almost by habit, and the inner council of the Inquisition is in session, just like that. "Let me make this brief, as you may get further details via raven, Leliana. The mages at Redcliffe are now allied with the Venatori; controlled by them is more precise, I suppose. They are led by a mage called Calpernia; also along are Grand Enchanter Fiona and most of the rebel (Circle) members." She purses her lips for a second in thought. "The attack is commanded by someone called The Elder One the Venatori answer to. Also, I am afraid, there is a dragon."

"A _what_?" Josephine breathes, face going pale, and even Leliana swallows audibly.

"That explains the fires and the rapid deterioration of the situation." Cullen says, rubbing on his face scar absentmindedly. _A dragon_. "Have you reached the trebuchets, Herald?"

"We did manage to inflict casualties on the vanguard of the advancing forces before the dragon destroyed the one on the south. The northern one should still be intact." Roxanne sweeps a few sweat-soaked tendrils of her hair out of her face, slightly awkward because gauntlets are really not made for this purpose. "Also encountered High Chancellor Roderick at the gate; was, in fact, supported by the Tevene mage. He indicated that His Eminence's coach and entourage was attacked and destroyed by the same beast we saw flying overhead." She glances to where the newcomer mage stands, talking to Vivienne and Varric with sweeping gestures; Cullen is somewhat pleased to see that Ser Lysette is hovering nearby, ready for anything, just in case. The Denerim Templar apparently knows how to take initiative when necessary and pays attention to rapidly changing situations, making the right decisions. As far as he is concerned, a field promotion is definitely in order- provided they survive the day.

"Orders, Commander?" Roxanne's voice is sharp. "If we wait too long, we will be pinned in entirely as the enemy forces move deeper, with the dragon providing cover."

"We are not in a position to hold out here," says Leliana slowly. "This is not a fort; the chantry doesn't even have a moat around it." She nods towards the nave, packed with people. "Unless we find a way to evacuate, they will kill everyone."

"The Elder One does not care about your villagers' lives." Cullen sees the Tevene mage strolling towards them, with Ser Lysette shadowing him, voice modulated and rich. "The only thing is… Damnation, Templar, stop crowding my personal space!" he thunders suddenly, whirling around, and Lysette tenses, hand on her sword…

"Stand _down_!" Roxanne barks suddenly, with the authority of an officer in command, and the ex-Templar's reflexes work. Lysette's hand relaxes and she takes two steps back. "He came all the way from Redcliffe to warn us and saved His Eminence from the ruins of his carriage: if he did all that just to get inside the Inquisition, I would say he chose rather inconvenient timing for it."

"That will be all, Lieutenant." Cullen cuts in, and catches a quick glance from Roxanne, grateful for the support . "You may return to your duties with my thanks for your vigilance. The Council will hear what Magister Pavus has to say. " The words sound way too pretentious even to his own ears, as if they were presiding over a grand table in a chamber full of tapestries and arched windows and this was not quite possibly the end of the entire Inquisition right here… but he can see that it made the right impression on the Tevene from the slightly deeper nod he accords to each of them in turn.

"I see there is no need to formally introduce myself," Dorian Pavus says, with a slight smile. "My thanks to the Herald for assisting me in my plight to bring word on what awaits you out there." _Maker__'__s Breath_, thinks Cullen, _he uses his words just as fastidiously as she does_. "As I was saying before my somewhat excusable outburst, the Elder One does not bargain, and does not care about lives." His voice turns bitter. "Just like with the mages of Redcliffe, he takes what he wants. From you, he wants your Herald; the rest will merely be collateral damage."

"He does not want me either." Roxanne's voice is thoughtful and they all look at her. "What he wants is _this_." She lifts her left hand; the Mark is a faint green pulse under the leather of her gauntlet's palm. "It should not be a coincidence that this happens right as we close the Breach. I just wish we knew more." Her gaze rests on the Tevene. "Any ideas from you, _magister_?"

"You took the Templars from his grasp." Dorian says, then gives a little laugh and shakes his head. "Of course he would want you for that alone." He waves a hand. "That title is not mine to bear, by the way; if you must use titles of your Southern lands, Messere Pavus will do quite nicely, thank you. For that, and for saving me there at the gates, too, I mean." he adds, as if he remembers something belatedly. "An absolutely brilliant performance with those trebuchets, by the way: very promising, those landslides."

"Of course," Roxanne nods, cool and polite, as if they were discussing weather. "It was entirely…"

"Wait." Cullen hears himself saying, slightly impatient. The thought forms in his mind, clear and crisp, despite the headache, the sobs of desperation, and the slowly encroaching scent of smoke from outside, despite the certainty growing in his mind about their situation-or perhaps because of it. "The trebuchet on the north side is still operational, you said?" Roxanne nods. "We could make another landslide," he continues, and sees understanding dawning in her eyes as she takes a step backwards.

"The enemy is right here; they already overran us," she says, more for the sake of the rest of the Council than for Cullen. He knows that she _knows: _she has a quick mind, suited for far-reaching plans and strategies, able to see the wheels behind the wheels and implications behind actions.

_She would have made such a brilliant officer_, Cullen thinks. _Definitely high command_. _Her men would have followed her everywhere, to the death, even…_

_And that__'__s just it._ It echoes in his mind like the toll of the Chantry bell, deep, resonant, and full of finality.

_Such a waste._

"To drop the mountain on them means to bury ourselves." Roxanne makes that snorting sound that Cullen knows means she's amused, and spells it out, slow and clear. "To bury Haven."

"Oh, that's just unacceptable," the Tevene says, strolling over, arm dramatically up in the air. His dashing smile fully deployed in Roxanne's direction, he takes her gauntleted hand and bows over it. "That would be such a waste of beauty and grace," another bow, "not to mention fashion and dashing style! Pish! To think that I came all the way here just for you to drop rocks on my head!"

Cullen feels something heavy, tinged with red threatening to burst from his chest at that, even though Dorian's words echo his feelings with eerie precision at that moment. _Or maybe exactly because of that, _a little voice inside of his head whispers. He finds himself face-to-face with the mage, stepping between him and Roxanne without even realizing it. He's not sure how that happened: his voice drops to a low growl as he locks eyes with the other man (_he has no right to be so familiar with her, so disrespectful, no right, no right, _the little voice whispers).

"Would you rather we submit, Tevene?" he snarls, hands balled into fists, head lowered; he sees, from the corner of his eyes, Leliana's surprised face at his outburst. "Have the Elder One kill us, one by one?"

"You are so eager to die, then, _Commander_?" the mage retorts, chin thrust forward defiantly. Apparently he knows more about him than it is possible during such a short acquaintance, because he cocks his head to the side and continues. "You know, for a Templar, you think like a blood mage, really."

"_Enough_." Again that whip-cracking tone of command from Roxanne, and Cullen sees thunder clouds in her Fade-green eyes. "Both of you. This is a waste of…"

"There is a way." The new voice is barely more than a whisper: they all stare as High Chancellor Roderick, chest and right leg heavily bandaged and face bearing a sickly pallor, limps up to them, leaning on Cole and lowers himself heavily in an empty chair none of them thought to sit on. "There's a mountain path, a secret path. The people can…" He stops, as a heavy cough shakes his body, accompanied by horrible wet sounds coming from his chest. Cullen knows that sound well, heard it enough from wounded comrades through the years to know instantly that, barring miracles, Roderick does not have long to live.

"No, let me…" The Chancellor waves off Leliana with a small vial in her hand. "Don't waste your healing on me, Sister Nightingale, there's no time. Herald… listen to me." His gaze is locked on Roxanne, as she steps closer to him, kneeling by the chair. Cullen remembers how Roderick treated her with barely veiled distrust and almost-open hostility from the very second she emerged from the Fade, and marvels at the change of heart as the old man clutches at Roxanne's shoulder. "An old path, overgrown… almost hidden, leading out of the canyon and above the Temple. She must have… shown me. Our Lady must have shown me so I could… tell you. To Her Herald."

"Your Eminence?" her voice is surprisingly gentle, brows furrowed in concentration as she tries to follow the old man's whispering. "Are you saying you know an escape route?"

"It was all overgrown when I found it…" Roderick's breath wheezes out of his chest with the same wetness that worried Cullen earlier. "Just like in the poem: _And ah, how hard it is to say just what/ this wild and rough and stubborn woodland was,/the very thought of which renews my fear!/So bitter __'__t is, that death is little worse/but of the good to treat which there I found/I __'__ll speak of what I else discovered there." _He gives a weak laugh.

"He's raving; we should…" The Tevene shakes his head impatiently, but Cullen holds up a hand, silencing him. His heart beats wildly in his chest as he hears Roderick slowly recount his pilgrimage on a long-gone summer day, and how he found the hidden path he now is willing to guide them to. He hears him, and hope rekindles in his heart slowly, for all of those around him, for all of those in the Chantry; for the entire Inquisition; for _his people_.

There is a way to save all of them; there's a way to strike a blow at their enemy; if only…

"Thank you, Your Eminence." Roxanne's voice is gentle as she straightens and bows her head to the old man; but there's steel in it as she turns and regards him. "Commander: do you think it would work?"

"If he shows us the path…" Honesty is what he needs now; also, more willowbark tea that they don't have time for, but he shoves that thought aside mercilessly and nods, reluctantly. "Possibly. Yes."

Roxanne makes a fist and takes a deep breath: yet again, she seems impossibly young for the enormity of what is thrust upon her and Cullen suddenly wants nothing more than to reach out, lay his hand on her shoulder, and reassure her that it all will be all right.

"That is good enough." She lowers her voice and steps slightly closer: Cullen can smell the blood and smoke on her armor. "Cullen," she says his name, in a voice raspy from exhaustion, inhaled smoke and emotions she normally keeps in check so rigidly. "Get them out of here. Please." There is urgency in her words and she grips his arm, with gauntleted fingers squeezing so he can feel it to the bone despite the armor. Her eyes are enormous. "Keep our people safe."

_Our people_. It reverberates inside of him, down to his toes and up to the crown of his head, and he hears the distant roar of his blood surging in his veins.

_Our people_, he hears, as she names them hers, and his, and finds that it's slightly hard to breathe and his heart is in his throat with an ache like a knife wound right through it.

_Our people_, she said, as if...

_What was it the strange boy said?_

_Lions need their packs…_

"I need volunteers for the trebuchet run." As he looks up, feeling dizzy, he finds that she already moved away. He can still feel every single point on his arm where her fingers touched him, through leather and metal, and his skin tingles. Her back is to him now, ramrod straight, proud, unbending. "I cannot ask anyone not willing…"

"You have me." Cassandra says, not even waiting for Roxanne to finish, and Varric is next, and Solas just steps out and stands next to her, glaring at the others as if to dare anyone to question his right to be there when it all comes down…

"Thank you," Roxanne says somewhat thickly. "The rest of you, please aid the Council in whatever way necessary until…" she pauses for a second and her eyes find his, luminous and bright, and so full of life and faith he has to blink for a second, "until we return."

_Damn it._

_This is why command is a burden, not an honor, Cullen_, he hears the voice of Greagoir, from decades away. "_You will understand one day, my boy_. _You will understand_ _when you make decisions that send great people, excellent people, people who should live full and productive and happy lives to certain death in order to save the innocent lives of those who did not choose the path of the sword and danger_."

_Oh, I understand it perfectly now, old man, believe me_, Cullen thinks as he barks short, sharp commands, organizes a marching order out of the chaos that erupts in the chantry almost immediately after he raises his voice, and watches the Tevene mage aid the High Chancellor to lead their first group to the small side door opening to a seemingly unpassable thicket of brushes and rock. _I understand it just fine…but have not the luxury to dwell on it until we are out of here._

And he manages to shove away that last moment of eye contact, firmly and decisively under layers of discipline and duty, manages not to think about it at all, not until hours later when Cassandra, Varric and Solas reach their makeshift camp, safely above the treelines and tell the stunned council how the Herald stayed behind to finish the mission after ordering them to retreat from the enormous red beast and its rider that swooped down on them just when they almost accomplished their task.

"I don't know, Cullen," Cassandra says, hands clasped behind her back, staring up to the sky as they stand at the edge of the camp. "I'm sorry. She ordered us to run, and stood there with her sword drawn, facing that thing down." She makes a short, sharp laugh. "As if she could… But you know that voice she uses when…"

"I do." Cullen nods, and they continue to peer into the darkness. The mountain just came down on Haven minutes after those three stumbled into the camp, right on cue after Sera sent up the signal flare he commanded, because that was the plan, damn it, and it should be followed even when there was almost no chance of succeeding. But the mountain came down, and they survived, and the enemy is nowhere to be seen, and now there is waiting, and they still talk about her in present tense.

They have to.

"I should have stayed with her." Cassandra says at last.

"Your duty to the Inquisition…" Cullen starts, and she turns on him with lightning in her eyes and balled fists and takes a deep breath, presumably to tell him, in her usual blunt style, what he can do with the Inquisition, when…

"Idiots." Varric's mumbling halts them both as he hurries past them, Bianca and a small pack slung on his shoulders. "When you two idiots finish blaming each other, maybe you should organize some search parties. She is out there, the poor kid, and you know she can't light a fire on her own, Seeker, we always had to do it for her, she doesn't know anything about camping in the wilds, and the snow is too wet up here, and there are _wolves…"_ The rest of his monologue dies away with the wind as he continues to trudge down the mountainside and around a huge boulder, his stocky frame sinking into the snow almost to the thighs.

"Maker." Cullen runs a hand through his hair, feeling like he has just been chewed out by his drill instructor back at Kinloch Hold as an apprentice Templar. "Of course. Search parties. Right."

And Cassandra turns, her cheeks and eyes slightly red, probably from the constant, buffeting wind, and yells for volunteers for search parties to find the Herald. Someone hands Cullen a torch, and he soon overtakes Varric with his much longer strides.

"Forgot the torch," he says as he aligns his steps with his, and Varric snorts.

"Curly, you are an idiot. Dwarf here? Bred for generations to see in big underground caves, almost no light? I mean I know I'm a surfacer now, but the abilities don't just wither away from seeing the sun." He slows down a bit and sighs. "It's all right, I am rambling. Just… don't' want to screw this one up, you know?"

"You can say that again," Cullen says curtly, and they trudge along in silence for a while, Cullen lifting the torch every now and then to peer through the darkness.

"Kid is brilliant." Varric starts talking after a while, snow crunching under his booted feet. "Absolutely brilliant, recites poetry and the Chant and old history and legends, lethal with that sword and not bad at hand-to-hand, a born leader too, men follow her as if she was I don't know, made of candy, but can't light a fire for shit. Can't cut wood, gut prey, make anything edible either, burned the bottom of the pot boiling water once. And no sense of direction at all, did you know that?" Cullen grunts: no, he had no idea, but the cold is getting to him slowly, and there's snow in his boots, and if he feels like this, he can't even imagine how Roxanne is now. "Turned us around twice up at Lake Luthias while looking for a rift the locals told us about. She could sense it all right through her mark, but navigating the countryside… Maker, but she was a good sport about it. 'It is merely a proof that the Maker intends us to be humble,' she said and grinned that wide grin of hers that can light up a whole room, you know? Just like running around with Prince Vael, I swear." He stops and pats his pockets down frantically. "That reminds me: firesteel… right. Belt pouch. Okay, we can go."

Cullen wants to tell him to slow down, to do this right, to stick to the path they followed here and then widen it in a gentle arch the way it _needs_ to be done, that surely she should be able to, at least, see the abandoned campfires they lit on the way for stragglers, but he can't get a word out; his throat is tight, and the wind is strong and has needles of ice in it now, and faintly he can hear howling…

"She asked about you, you know," Varric says suddenly, after they walk a ways. "About your background, and what you did before the Inquisition, and how we knew each other. That kind of thing."

"What?" Cullen hears himself say, a bit louder than necessary. "That's…Why would she… I mean… " He rubs his neck. "Why would she ask you, she could have just come and ask me, it's not that I…"

"Curly, you have _no_ idea just how intimidating you are, have you?" Varric asks with a little laugh. "Commander of the sodding Inquisition, Lion of Ferelden, former Knight Commander of Kirkwall, all of that? No, she didn't just walk up and ask you, she's too well-bred and raised right and wanted to make sure you didn't think she was just a fraud, a girl playing with swords because she had no other things to do or something, not taking this whole thing seriously enough…"

"Seriously enough?" Cullen is shouting now, and not exactly sure why. "_Seriously enough_? She can't sleep at night and walks all over the place, goes to the chantry to work on her garden, all to get the images of demons and whatever else she has to butcher in the name of the bloody Inquisition on a weekly basis out of her head! She worked her knuckles raw on doing laundry she had no idea how to do and I have no idea how she coped _before_ that. She should be in a comfortable garrison posting getting groomed for high command somewhere in Orlais, not running around with the likes of us, or asking about the past of washed-out Templars who…" He trails off, aware that he's standing in the middle of nowhere on a cliffside, hands balled into fists, shouting at a dwarf who is staring at him with open mouth.

"You know," Varric says after they both just breathe in silence a little bit and Cullen regains enough of his equilibrium that he feels moderately ashamed of losing his temper this bad, "I really don't want to be one of your recruits. By all Her wet frocks, if you…" He cuts off sharply, and tilts his head to the side. "Wait. Heard that?"

"Heard what…?" Cullen starts to say, but Varric is already moving, down the slope, towards a copse of firs that hang over a precipice, and over the increasing howl of the winds Cullen can now make something out as well, and…

_Of course she__'__d be singing a Chantry hymn_, he thinks as he starts to run, stumbling at first but then righting himself, passing Varric easily despite the deepening snow, _that__'__s just exactly what she__'__d do instead of trying to make a fire, what in the Fade is she thinking, that maybe that keeps her warm… _and then he's skidding to a halt where a snow-sodden heap of dark-stained armor and leather huddles below the low-hung branches of a fir tree. She is on her knees, leaning on her sword she used as a cane, apparently, and there's frost at the end of her eyelashes as she blinks up at him, the syllables of her song dying in her throat.

"She's here!" Cullen yells back towards Varric, sticks the torch straight into the snow and scoops Roxanne up in his arms. "Thank the Maker!" His throat goes tight again; she is sodding wet and shivering.

"Oh." She sighs; her voice cracks a bit and her head lolls to the side, thudding against his chest. "I am sorry; but you were yelling…"

"What?" he says incredulously, more struck by the fact that she's still using correct syntax and grammar than what she says… then it hits him: _she heard me and Varric arguing from a distance, and started singing as a response so we heard her_.

_Maker_.

He yanks at his cloak, almost angrily, so the clasp breaks and disappears into the snow, but he does not care, as he wraps the fur and leather securely around Roxanne and tucks it under her chin, hoping it will be enough to keep her warm until they reach the warmth of their campfires and tents. He can feel her shake in her entire body, but her heartbeat is steady against his own and he thinks she, understandably, finally, has passed out.

"Can't sodding believe it!" Varric reaches them then, shaking his head, but grinning now. "There's only one other person in Thedas who could possibly get caught by singing the _Lament of Andraste_ in a snowstorm, and he's definitely _not_ here—but even he wouldn't do it in _Middle Alamarric_. Bloody Fade, Herald, you made it!"

Cullen carries her all the way back to camp, soon accompanied by other searchers, Cassandra, new light shining in her eyes and Solas, solemn and taciturn but with head held high, amongst them, and just after entrusting her to Mother Giselle's tender but firm care, and seeing the Reverend Mother and her surviving sisters surround her and start the tedious process of returning life and warmth into her limbs, thinks about what Varric said.

"Sister Nightingale?" he asks Leliana as they sit by one of the fires, next to her precious ravens' boxes stacked high and listening to the birds' soft, sleepy complaining noises. "Do you know _The Lament of Andraste?_"

"Hmm?" Leliana asks lazily; her chin is in her palm and she pokes at the fire with a stick. "Yes, of course: not very popular these days, a bit obscure, but… why?"

"It's what she was singing when we found her." Cullen says simply. Leliana makes a humming sound and gives a thoughtful nod.

"Fitting," she says. "The Herald of Andraste singing the song of Our Lady and her salvation of mankind. Here, my Middle Alamarric is a bit rusty, but it's close enough that you'll get the gist of it." She clears her throat delicately. "Let me see…"

_Love me broughte_

_And love me wroughte_

_Man, to be thy fere_

_Love me fedde_

_And love me ledde_

_And love me lette here_

_Love me slou_

_And love me drou_

_And love me layde on bere_

_Love is my pes_

_For love I ches_

_Man to buyen dere_

_Ne dred thee nought_

_I have thee sought_

_Bothen day and night_

_To haven thee_

_Well is me_

_I have thee wonnen in fight_

Leliana 's voice, of course, is trained and strong, and not at all like the halting, wind-choked, exhausted sound that he and Varric picked up on that mountainside, but Cullen nevertheless can't _not_ hear it that way—perhaps ever again.

_Andraste_, he thinks, as he closes his eyes and prays, _thank you for leading her back to us_. _To her people, bought dear and won in fight._

_We will keep her safe._

_I will keep her safe._

**End notes on quotes: **I had fun digging these up.

'_Maker, my enemies are abundant ' _and_ 'Maker, though the darkness comes upon me' _are from the Chant of Light, Canticle of Trials.

'_The time is out of joint' _is of course, the famous play of _Hamlet_, by William Shakespeare; since in my previous story arc my Hawke loves theater, this was very fitting.

_And ah, how hard it is to say just what/ this wild and rough and stubborn woodland was'—_the poem Roderick quotes is the _Divine Comedy_ by Dante Alighieri, Volume 1, Inferno, Canto 1, translated into English by William Langdon. As far as overgrown paths go, that one is pretty famous, and when I was listening to the cutscene in-game, I just couldn't shake the feeling that there was an allusion there—Roderick is having a major come-to-Andraste moment right there, after all.

And, finally, the song _Love Me Broughte_: most people know this one from the superb rendition from the lovely Medieval Baebes, but originally this is a late-14th century hymn from the collected miscellaneous scribblings of a gent called John Grimestone, and is a song about Christ and His sacrifice. As Andraste, by the writers' admission, is a clear parallel from Thedas, this did not seem like a far-fetched borrowing here.


	4. Perfect

**Perfect**

_**A/N: One without quotes from obscure sources this time. As usual, I'm playing with the game dialog while trying to remain faithful to the spirit of the story.**_

_Pretty, pretty please_  
_Don't you ever, ever feel_  
_Like you're less than,_  
_Less than perfect_  
_Pretty, pretty please_  
_If you ever, ever feel_  
_Like you're nothing_  
_You are perfect to me_  
_-Boyce Avenue, Perfect_

They made her Inquisitor with much fanfare and not a small amount of 'organized spontaneity' (her words) from Leliana which at the beginning turned Cullen's stomach, but by now he sees the necessity of it. They are also building her a suite to match her new title up in the main keep of their new, great big fortress, and when she's not overseeing the builders or receiving visitors and dignitaries of state, she's off to scout out the Fallow Mire and Crestwood, closing rifts and killing undead and he barely sees her any more.

He remembers her face as the people, her people knelt in front of her, openly weeping and faces full of awe, singing along with Mother Giselle and Leliana, as the ancient song rose above them: she held her chin high and her face serene, but she was swaying slightly; still too frail from her ordeals, she really shouldn't have been standing like that, but her eyes found his at the end, and he saw her almost visibly relax and her back straighten. She was truly their Herald then, the Lady Who Came back the second time, in their hour of need, and Cullen struggled with the urge to kneel himself: he closed his eyes and joined the singers instead.

Their route from the mountains around Haven to Skyhold was fraught with danger, cold and wild animals and rockslides… He had his hands full even before they reached their destination. Leliana's willowbark tea lasted for quite a while, and his soldiers and the never-ending lists kept him busy enough. What remained was simple enough: making sure he had enough water to drink to combat the dryness in his throat and counteract the fact that he too often shared his rations with some hollow-eyed children at the back of the marching column who clearly needed more than a piece of hardtack and a strip of dried meat. Their parents' gratitude was obvious, and often embarrassing, and Cullen at the end took to just telling Very Capable Ser Lynette to cover for him at the night meetings and, forgoing his by now recognized-on-sight cloak, trudged back to the edge of the camp with a bowl in each hand. He kept a list of every single family they still had, obviously, and tried to make the rounds even. What he also tried, with far less success, was ignoring the gnawing feeling in his stomach and the stares and pointed remarks from Leliana about the hollowness of his cheeks. He thought he saw Roxanne once or twice amongst the fires, moving about the same way he did (with that _'I'm not really here'_ walk, slightly slouched and furtive), but as she was supposed to have all her meals and then some, still recovering from her ordeals in Haven's aftermath, he naturally pretended that he never caught a glimpse of silver-white hair under dark hood, sitting at a fire with a small child held in her lap somewhat awkwardly, and stuck to Inquisition business at their daily meetings.

And now they have a veritable fortress in the middle of the mountains, people are busy breaking down old, dry wood for kindling and discovering hidden caches of goods in the cellars and great, vaulted rooms (including an entire smithy full of still-usable tools and dry stables, and two storerooms of weapons), the Chargers, Varric and Sera bring in game every day, and their first herd of cattle and goats was driven in just last week from the Hinterlands, hopefully to establish a more reliable food source.

Once Leliana's birds started flying reliably, they established contact with the outside world, and Cullen busied himself with arranging guard rotations, making sure inventory of supplies was precise and controlled, receiving and dispatching reports, and, of course, their casualty list. He keeps the most important reports and lists in a waterproof satchel because even after arriving to Skyhold he mostly slept in a tent in the upper courtyard, next to a table they found in a nearby half-collapsed room and dragged it out for him to be his field office, literally, in the middle of the courtyard.

"_All is well now, boys," the Iron Bull grinned as he set the corner down with a solid thump, while two of his Chargers held the other, "our general has established administrative headquarters. Let the paperwork flood!"_

"_Shit, Bull," his second-in-command, Lieutenant Aclassi growled, wiping his forehead, "that table is sodding solid; how __**much**__ paperwork are we talking about here?" _

_The Qunari just pointed at Cullen with a thick thumb. "Ask the man, the myth, the legend: he's standing right there… and what in the sodding Fade is __**that**__?"_

_That last part was said in a considerably more surprised voice, as an extremely large and very orange ball of fur exploded from the room they just dragged the table out from. The sounds it emulated were a cross between Anderfels yodeling and the spit of a Ferelden Frostback, its ears were flat against its triangular head and it glared at them with huge amber eyes as it jumped up on the desk, tail swishing wildly. It looked around defiantly, claws digging into the wood._

"_A cat, I believe," Cullen said cautiously, watching the animal. It was a very large one, and clearly feral. Since they reached Skyhold, they encountered several of them: a tiny but fierce tribe of them lived in Skyhold, descended from Maker knows what ancestors, brought here by the original inhabitants generations ago. Cullen had limited experience with felines apart from childhood memories of barn cats, but he remembered they were good to have around against vermins, and that horses liked them for that same reason. This one was probably their leader: the others were shy and barely visible, but this one was sitting now on top of the desk as if it was __**his, **__returning his gaze with a fierce protectiveness and defiance that struck a chord with Cullen. This animal survived here and claimed Skyhold before they even knew about the place: what right he had to deprive it from its just prize?_

"_Well, there you have it, Commander," Aclassi drawled. "Looks like you need to share that desk with someone, after all." He grinned. "Or give it back, I guess."_

On the other hand, he liked that desk _very_ much, so it stayed where they put it. The cat, unfortunately, decided to do the same. After a short but violent staring contest, during which (although he would never had admitted this to anyone) Cullen actually growled at the orange furball, they reached an uneasy truce. The tom (it was, undeniably and visibly, male) claimed the top right corner of the desk in the late morning hours when the sun was just at the right angle, but kept moving every now and then as the beam on warmth wandered further down. Cullen got into the habit of rearranging the paperwork for the first days, but after that just left it where it was; after all, it didn't hurt anything and he'd be damned if he'd given up his prize to an _animal_. It only knocked his pot of ink over once, the first time, almost as a test, glaring at him all the while as it did it. He swatted it down with an open, gauntleted palm, not too gently; the tom landed on its feet, but with a decidedly surprised expression on its face, about three feet from the desk. It apprised him for a minute with its amber eyes, flicked a tail, and wandered away, only to return an hour later with a dead sparrow in its mouth, which he deposited with great care right next to his elbow on the desk and sat down to wash.

When the cat started accompany him on his daily walks to survey the battlements, Dorian Pavus, witnessing it one day promptly named the animal Adjutant Felix, after the Tevene word for 'cat' (also claiming it reminded him of a friend of his) and the name stuck. Cook in the kitchens knows by now to slip him some extra scraps the same way she secretly leaves milk out for the entire tribe (there aren't many of them, illness, malnutrition and the eagles living in the valley equally keeping the population low). Cullen endures the jibes that inevitably follow, down to the 'but I thought Fereldans liked _dogs'_ from the Tevene, and when one evening the animal lands on his lap, _clearly_ by accident, he only hesitates for a second before his fingers stroke the surprisingly soft fur behind its scarred and torn ears.

There is, also, inevitably, already a tavern at Skyhold, springing up about two weeks after their arrival, ran by a taciturn dwarf and it does not take long before a bard shows up at the gates. Cullen suspects Sister Nightingale's involved in that one, but does not say anything, and, as the ale is from Ferelden, he does not object when one evening the Chargers show up at his field office after dusk started to set in but before it was too dark to work by candlelight and invite him for a drink.

"_It is good for your men to see that their general can be less…sorry, Commander, there's no other way of putting this, stuck up in the arse," laughed the Bull. "Besides, it's never good to do paperwork by candlelight, everyone knows that." _

_He stared at him, uncomprehending: in Kinloch Hold, and in Kirkwall's Circle as well, the best time Templar officers could catch up on reports and correspondence was after dark, when the mages were required to retire to their quarters and everything grew quiet. _

"_What, bad for the eyes, you mean?" he asked, and the big Qunari roared a laughter so loud it shook the rafters. _

"_Bless you, commander, bet you never got so ass-drunk after dark you didn't find your way to your own bed? Eveningfall means you can start drinking, and starting drinking means there's no paperwork that gets done. Are you saying you did differently in your Order?"_

_When he explained, the Chargers huddled into a little clump, and Aclassi ('Krem, please, Commander') declared they unanimously voted him 'most in need of drinks and women' in the entire Inquisition. As they were not under his direct command, it wasn't as if he could clap them in iron for disrespect (which was, admittedly, his first reaction), so he merely drew up an eyebrow and asked 'what, plural?' which earned him a round of shocked expressions all around, followed by uproarious laughter, and a thump in the back from the Iron Bull that even through his armor made for a nice bruise._

And now here they are again, him carefully nursing that one tankard of ale (there's no need to replace one addiction with another), Bull and Krem on their third, and every time they lift their drink and toast the air, they drink to their new Inquisitor, and all he can think about is what she told him after they scaled that last rise of rock and spotted Skyhold's silhouette jutting against the dawn sky. Solas was standing just ahead of them, leaning on his staff, frail body practically wrapped around that piece of wood and steel to anchor himself to the rock in the buffeting winds of the Frostbacks, but his unshakeable will didn't allow him to be anywhere else but out front to lead the way, Cullen assumed.

"_We made it, Cullen." Roxanne's fingers squeezed his arm exactly at the same spot than back in the Haven Chantry, buried under rock and snow now, and her face was all alight, despite the fatigue lines around her mouth. "Just look at it." She waved back at the line of people, ponies, druffalo and horses behind them. "Our people…safe." As she closed her eyes for a second, Cullen saw glittering wetness welling up at the corners. "Maker be praised, we have a home."_

And so they do, even though it's dusty and ancient and partly ruined and smells funny at places (the smell of cat urine is less than pleasant but one gets used to it, provided it's not on one's bedroll), but definitely livable and Maker, it's a grand place of architecture, Cullen has to admit, especially when he stands on the battlements overlooking some of the tallest peaks of the Frostbacks. He lifts his face in the wind that blows from Ferelden, and when he hears the cries of the eagles that they share this valley with, he almost feels like the constant headaches and thirst are disappearing.

But today Josephine is throwing a small reception with visiting dignitaries from Val Royaux and Denerim (their likes started to flock in almost the day after they got the Skyhold) to celebrate recent developments in mutual cooperation and goodwill (her words), and there is just _no way_ Cullen will make an appearance.

"_I am hardly a diplomat." He set his jaw firm and withstood Josephine's disapproving gaze without flinching. "I have the Fallow Mire reports to go over, and Chief Scout Harding wants to depart tomorrow to investigate those sightings of darkspawn at the Storm Coast, which means…"_

"_Oh, fine, fine!" Josephine threw up a hand (her fingers were ink-stained, Cullen noticed with some amusement). "Don't burden me with the details, please. I'll just let the Inquisitor know you continue to evade her. As per usual," she added with a little sigh, and Cullen felt something twist in his guts._

"_What?" he asked, momentarily confused; he's not sure if it's one of the bad days where the withdrawal symptoms will render him mostly unapproachable and barely able to speak, or just that Josephine implying that Roxanne might miss him makes him all… "I'm not evading her, I am merely…"_

"_Doing your job, yes, Cullen," Josephine said, somewhat softening her expression. During their log trek here, the Inner Circle took to calling each other their first names; it would have been terrible awkward otherwise sometimes. "Don't worry, it'll be fine."_

And that, of course, didn't help at all. He went through the day with gritted teeth, despite the dry mouth and nausea and the urge to throw things at various couriers who showed up with more reports, not to mention Chief Scout Harding being even more of her usual chipper self ('_no one who had as many spider bites as she has the right to be __**this**__ optimistic about her next trip'_ Cullen thought by the end of their meeting). As the headache pulsed just behind his temple, the little voice in his head that remembered _everything_ kept up a steady whisper of "_you promised to take care of her and now you don't even respond to those little missives she sends from her scouting trips with anything but a variation on 'that's very interesting, your Worship, please be careful and report any unusual armored troop sightings as soon as possible'_".

But how can he? How can he pretend that she is not so far above all of them, soaring like those eagles in the light of the Maker? He does not blaspheme thinking she's Andraste's equal, he's not that far gone, but there's definitely no way he would ever even dare to think of, Maker help him, what he almost did when he found her under that copse of fir trees and lifted her in his arms. _Keeping her safe_? She is the one out there every week, making sure they are safe, that they are fed and clothed and has roofs over their heads and that there are less and less Rifts and abominations and rising dead roaming the countryside, and ever since she accepted the sword from Leliana's hands and stood above all of them on that balcony, she is their leader, and his Inquisitor, and it is as it should be.

So. Because he's socially awkward and apparently can't say 'no' to the promise of sitting in a corner of a badly-lit room with a bunch of other men and grunt one-syllable responses while others are having a good time, he's in the tavern now, nursing that one tankard and a nicely developing migraine, and only listens half-heartedly as the Bull and Krem are recounting past commissions including one where seven of them were paid in rice for killing bandits…

"Wait," he says finally, lifting a hand and halting them because, really, there are _limits_. "In _rice_?" Krem nods. "For eliminating _how many_ bandits?"

"Fifty." Bull says proudly and leans back on his chair. The chair protests; it was really not built for Qunari. "Or thereabouts."

"That's…" Cullen pauses, wanting to say 'sodding impossible' but he has manners, so he settles for, "rather insane, even from you, Captain."

"Hey, consider what your Inquisition does on a daily basis, and say that again," Bull says, somewhat defensively. "But all true, I swear." He beams at his lieutenant. "That's where Krem here got that scar on his face, you know."

And that's how all of it starts. Cullen knows that it would really be time to get out and go back to his tent (he _thinks_ he found just the right place to move his office to, but they are still working on cleaning out the debris and broken pieces of furniture from that room in the middle tower, so it will be a while; and besides, Adjutant Felix likes that desk where it is now), but somehow he grew _comfortable_ with these two, he realizes, probably because they don't exactly _belong_ either. A horned Qunari with surprisingly acute observations about human nature, a man who isn't _actually_ a man, and an ex-Templar who pays every day for the sins of his past…_Yes_, Cullen thinks as he leans back and stretches his legs under the table, _this is the Maker's sense of humor made manifest, _and when Krem turns to him and says '_Your turn, General'_ he knows exactly what he means_._

"This," he says haltingly, and touches his gloved hand to his upper lip where one of the memories of Kirkwall faded into a pale white line on his face, "is what happens when you stand between a friend and an angry red statue."

"Ooh." Krem says, looking at him with the assessing eyes of a professional. "From the look of it, let's see…slightly curved sword, wicked hook at the end probably from the way it pulled your lip a bit outward there…but a _statue_? There's _got_ to be a story there."

"There is," Cullen says curtly. "Varric probably wrote a book about it, too."

"Kirkwall, huh?" Bull takes up his tankard, empties it halfway: it seems he made inquiries. "I heard you stood up to your commanding officer there at the end. Nasty business."

"That it was," Cullen says, and they all drink and fell quiet for a bit. "Not nearly as much fun as getting paid in rice for _that_, though," he nods towards Krem's scar, and they share a chuckle. "Your eye?" he asks after a while, indicating the Bull's eyepatch and the scar tissue around it. "I would guess…mace?"

"Only moment of my life when I was sentimental," Bull says, and a look passes between him and his lieutenant. "Stood between this idiot here and a Tevene flail, so, close guess."

"Love you too, Chief," Krem says, lifting his tankard, and as Cullen turns to signal for a refill for them, he becomes aware of the silence that fell on the tavern like a cloud that tries to decide whether it would be thunderstorm or just gently falling rain.

"As you were, please. " The Inquisitor herself is standing at the door of the tavern, peering tentatively into the murky depths and waving at a few of the soldiers at the tables who jumped up and saluting her awkwardly. "I am, ah, not here in official capacity."

"Thank the Maker for that," someone in the back mutters, and there are snickers.

Roxanne snorts.

"It occurred to me," she starts, slowly walking forward and running her eyes across the crowd, "that while nibbling _hors d'oeuvres_ with Val Royeaux nobility and Fereldan arls is a fine way to spend one's evening in certain circles, it is somewhat of a… less worthy way of using my time than making sure that the finest soldiers of Thedas have what they need." Her gaze finds Cabot, the tavern owner, and she grins. "A round of ale of their choice for everyone, on me, please." The resulting cheers, shouting and inevitable press towards the bar is chaotic enough that Cullen loses sight of her until she's standing by their table.

"Boss!" The Iron Bull's greeting is nothing less than enthusiastic, and he pulls out a free chair with his feet. "Haven't seen you since we crushed undead together at the North Gate. Care to join us?" His eyes travel up and down on her and he whistles, slow and low. "And may I say just how nicely you clean up, Your Worship?" The title rolls around in his mouth, the 'p' popping slightly at the end, and Cullen tries not to ball his hands in fists.

"It was Josephine." Roxanne sighs as she takes the chair, carefully arranging what appears to be several layers of silk underskirts under a deceptively simple black brocade gown. Silver embroidery glints at the throat and hem, in an intricate yet minimal scrollwork design. "She can be rather persuasive. I, however, drew the line at her color choices. '_It will be either the exact same material and color as my new doublets, or I go to the reception wearing my armor_', I told her, and it seems like she found just the right fabric for both, albeit I am still sore about the lace and the embroidery." She grimaces slightly. "She had her revenge with these underskirts, though. "_'It is impossible to run in one of these, let alone the three you are getting'_, she said." The grin is back. "I am happy to report that I proved her wrong."

The Bull laughs.

"_Very_ good," he says, approvingly. "We're glad you came down, Boss. I'm assuming you put in enough time with them upstairs?"

"They had my undivided attention for a full glass and a half," Roxanne says, accepting a tankard Cabot himself places in front of her with a graceful nod. "I, however, drew the line at the discussion of how difficult it is to obtain Antivan silk for one's unmentionables these days due to the 'unstable situation'." She makes a face. "While I certainly sympathize with the marquise's plight, the fact that we almost starved and frozen to death in the Frostbacks before we arrived here makes it _slightly_ difficult to fully comprehend the gravity of the situation she described."

"Is that what you said?" Bull throws his head back and laughs. "Boss, you're a treasure!"

"You are too kind." Roxanne takes a small sip of her drink, and Cullen watches very carefully as she puts it down. _No shakes. Good_. "I am also happy to report that at the end of the ensuing conversation the marquise volunteered to send a significant monetary contribution from her personal fortunes towards our orphan fund. As she shall not have the opportunity to spend it on Antivan unmentionables this season," she adds, resulting in yet another round of laughter from the great Qunari and a salute with his tankard from Krem.

"We missed you at the reception, though, Commander," she says suddenly, turning towards Cullen and he feels like he's very warm, as the full force of Roxanne Trevelyan's gaze is concentrated upon him all of a sudden.

"I, ah, hadn't thought my presence would have any significant…" he stammers out and rubs the back of his neck.

"_Certainly_ not regarding Antivan unmentionables," Roxanne says promptly, with that inscrutable expression that Cullen by now labeled as her 'Lady Trevelyan face', and he knows he's probably as red as it gets now. "Forgive me, that was inappropriate," she hastens to add, and clears her throat quickly. "Your absence was felt by some, nevertheless. But I believe you gentlemen were involved in a discussion when I interrupted?" she asks, head tilted slightly sideways.

"Riight," the Bull says slowly, still grinning, and Cullen is much grateful for dropping _that_ subject. "We were playing a game old soldiers like to bide the time with sometimes… Wonder if you'd care to join?"

"Doesn't involve unmentionables, Your Worship, you can be assured about that," Krem puts in, and Cullen knows, just _knows_ that this, from now on, will become part of Chargers legends along with the fifty bandits and the rice payment. "It was the Chief's turn. We're comparing scars and stories, you see. About how we got them; bonus if you can guess something about how one got the scar ahead of time."

"I see." Roxanne says, thoughtful. "I suppose it is only fair, since I accepted your invitation, that I also take part?" she inquires with slightly raised eyebrows.

The Bull nods, encouragingly.

"Absolutely, Your Worship. Don't worry, we don't bite. Much, I mean," he adds with a wide grin, no, a _leer_, Cullen corrects himself and grits his teeth.

"Oh, good." Roxanne's answer is lightning-quick, almost as if this was an exchange of swords. _Or_, Cullen thinks, _very much like the way she baited him on the Haven training grounds that morning_. "I'd hate to ruin this dress."

_Yes, __**definitely**__ like that_. Cullen feels a certain amount of satisfaction at the expression fluttering through the Qunari's face now, and suppresses a smile.

"Well, then," Roxanne shrugs that little Orlesian shrug of hers, "I suspect you would be curious about how I obtained this memento here?" She taps a finger on her forehead, where the white of her old scar bisects the smoothness of her skin. "Any guesses?"

"Dueling sword." Cullen answers promptly, surprising even himself with his boldness. "Narrow blade, glancing angle: perhaps from your Academy days in Val Royeaux?"

"Very good, Commander." Roxanne sips from her tankard again. "I see you read Sister Nightingale's files on me." That stings; Cullen wants to say something, to apologize, but Roxanne waves her hand. "Of course you did, you had to know who the strange person falling out of the hole in the sky was. I cannot fault you for _that_, not the same way I am very slightly _put out_ for you not appearing at the reception today, anyway."

The Bull smirks at that, and Cullen feels a bit of vertigo. That was _yet_ another, very Orlesian way of rebuking him, and while a part of him bristles at the chastisement in public, another part nods in understanding: _as long as she still talks to me with that smile on her face (dimples and a slight pout), it is all right._

_Hold on Rutherford, what_?

"So: my scar." Roxanne clasps her hands together in front of her on the table, as if she was preparing for a discussion of scout deployments at the war table. "The short version: Val Royeaux, Imperial Academy, first year cadet. Second son of the Duke of Montsimmard, disagreement regarding where his hands should have been at a certain point." She shrugs. "I was not sure my backside was the proper place for them, you see; he thought I was just an unnecessarily fussy Marcher playing dress-up and wanted to make sure about the contents of said pants." Cullen definitely feels his face heating up at this point, but the Iron Bull and Krem are grinning like mad. "And thus, we have met one fine morning in the Hall of Trophies, which was the traditional place for such disagreements."

"And you lost to him?" The Bull says, with some sympathy. "After _that_? Ouch."

"Not exactly," Roxanne says with a certain amount of smugness and she leans back, adjusting the lace cuffs of her dress fastidiously. "I caught a ricocheted shard of his sword on my forehead after his blade shattered on mine. It left a mark, but my pants were safe afterwards for the duration of my education there."

"Awesome!" The Iron Bull pounds the table with his fist. Cullen holds on to his tankard and is still busy trying to sort out what is exactly going on with him getting all flustered by seeing the Herald of Andraste's smile. "And what happened to the other guy?"

"The second son of the Duke of Montsimmard?" Roxanne sighs. "He finished his studies at the Academy, but I am afraid that his attempts of siring an offspring remained unsuccessful, if I recall. Something to do with a pommel strike to a sensitive area causing regrettably permanent damage. The doctors his father consulted were cautiously optimistic about recovery in time, however."

"No shit," Krem whistles. "I believe that wins this round. Chief?"

"Tend to agree." The Qunari shakes his great head. "Boss, you should come and drink with us more often. Seriously: you're already legendary, but if this stuff gets out, your folks will be willing to walk into fire for you. I mean, punching a guy in the balls so hard he can't make babies anymore because he was disrespectful, _while_ breaking his _other_ sword into pieces; that's reassuring, take it from me. And slightly terrifying, too, mind you," he adds, and Cullen finds himself nod in acquiescence. "Remind me to be on my best behavior when I'm around you. " He jerks a thumb at Cullen's direction. "As I keep telling the Commander here, it's important that your people see you're human. Well, in _your_ cases, anyway. For _me_, they just need to know I'm awesome."

Roxanne snorts.

"Bull, I would love to do that, but I am afraid it would be bad for the Inquisition's purse strings." She inclines her head towards the crowd at the bar, a serious expression settling on her features. "I would much rather make sure they have food and decent clothes for the climate here."

"Aww, you sure do know how to ruin the fun." The Bull waggles his eyebrows; they obviously became much less formal with each other during their missions together, Cullen realizes: not that anyone could really be formal with the hulking mercenary captain. Still, it somehow _itches_ that the Bull spends more time with her than him, the commander of her forces does. "Not even going to ask the Commander here for a rematch in the Battle of Scar Tales?"

_Here comes the punishment for all my wordly sins_, he thinks, slightly blasphemously and swallows. There's a strange fluttering in his chest as he returns her gaze.

"I am not sure that would be… proper," she says slowly, and looks away and… _is that a blush_? Cullen thinks, disbelievingly.

"Then again, it _is_ his turn, if I understand this correctly," Roxanne continues, Fade-green eyes narrowing slightly and looking straight back at him again. Cullen suddenly has the feeling that _everyone_ at the table knows rules he has no idea about, and he cannot help but rub the back of his neck.

"I…ah, as my lady Inquisitor commands," he stammers (and oh, how he hates when this happens). He sees the Bull wink at Krem and Roxanne leans forward, like a great bird of prey about to swoop down.

"I have no intentions to ruin your evening off, Commander, so tell me please if this is over the limits; but you _do_ have the most awful tells." He stares at her with sight incomprehension and she sighs, a bit impatient. "You obviously have a scar there at the back of your neck that you keep rubbing at when you are flustered. You probably started to grow your hair out to cover it, and as the rules prohibit that while in the Templar order, I believe you must have received the wound around or just before you left Kirkwall."

"Shit, Boss, you're good," the Bull says, with clear admiration. "And you haven't even seen it."

"There is no need for arse-kissing, Captain," Roxanne's voice is sharp. "I am aware of my capabilities and limitations: after all, you have seen me trying to light a campfire." She turns to Cullen; there is a slight flush to her cheek still. "Not to mention finding barely gone out campfires that were left there for warmth specifically for strugglers, if _you_ recall. I am still very much embarrassed about that one."

Cullen is speechless as he realizes she's serious. She managed to bury half of their adversaries' army under a mountainslide, fight her way across chasms of rocks and demons and a snowstorm, not to freeze, and, after being found, to make sure he, Cassandra, Leliana and Josephine didn't kill each other in the aftermath… and she's all worked up about not being able to make fire and navigate in a blizzard?

"I don't think that's fair, Inquisitor," he blurts out. "I think…I think you're perfect." He pauses, realizing his mouth just _completely_ ran away with him. "For the job, I mean."

"Oh, ho-ho!" The Iron Bull hoots. "_Now_ who's arse-kissing?"

"_Maker_, Bull: pot, meet kettle." Roxanne pushes her chair back, voice angry all of a sudden, tinged with slight bitterness. Cullen blinks. "I am afraid I am going to have a long day tomorrow so you will forgive me if I cut this short and right here." She turns, skirts swishing, one hand waving to the room: it's strong and steady, but Cullen catches the way she bites her lip and hunches her shoulder as she walks towards the door, head still held high, and decides that the migraine can wait until he sorts this one out.

"Good man," he hears the Bull mutter into his drink as he, too, leaves the table hurriedly, muttering half-hearted apologies and throwing some silver next to his half-empty tankard. "About time."

He catches up with her as she turns by the corner; she walks with big, angry strides, holding her skirts above her ankles with one hand to the side. She obviously heard him coming, because she slows down a bit to allow him to match steps with her, and he sees that she's scrubbing quickly at the corner of her eyes with her right hand to…

Maker, were those _tears_?

"Inquisitor, are you… all right?" he asks, his own hand hovering uncertainly in the air over her shoulder. "I apologize if I…"

"Do you ever stop working, Cullen?" Her voice is slightly shaky, but she stops, turning towards the inner courtyard.

"I beg your pardon?" He feels his eyebrows going up: what a strange question. He decides to clasp his hands behind his back, following her gaze, and…

_Oh_. She's looking at his field office there, right next to his tent that, no doubt, by now smells slightly of cat urine again: Adjutant Felix likes to have him on schedule and is unhappy when his self-designated human stays out too long.

"I was merely… thinking about how nice it was seeing you there. With the others, I mean, in the tavern." Her sentences are shorter than usual, her breathing a bit more shallow, which is never a good sign as far as battlefield trauma is concerned. "Almost relaxed. I think you even smiled once." She scrubs at her face again. "And then I come in, and you go all official and 'Inquisitor this' and 'Inquisitor that', and…" She squares her shoulders and turns back to look at him. "You said I can always talk to you if I feel the need to…"

"Maker's Breath!" It comes out a bit louder than he wanted it, and angrier, too; she almost flinches, and his hand flies out and grabs her shoulder almost without thinking. _She is right, Rutherford_, he thinks, _you promised her so many things and at the end_…

_Just like always_, that little voice in his head whispers. _Just like through your whole life_, but he banishes the thought and softens the pressure of his fingers on her shoulders.

"Of course you can... Roxanne." Her face softens a bit as he calls her that, the tiny worry lines around her eyes dissipating somewhat. "I apologize. It's just…" He takes a deep breath because how can one explain _this_? "As you say, I don't really stop working, and with us now knowing the threat we face…As the commander of your forces, I must be ready for the event this…Corypheus might strike again. Our men should be prepared. I should be prepared."

They, of course, had discussions at the war table about this, about their losses, about all the grueling details of how to re-organize everything they've lost at Haven. It works, the axles are slowly getting oiled again and the wheels turn… but the two of them somehow moved on different planes ever since they arrived here. Ever since he watched her accepting that sword from Leliana's hands and saw the faces of all those assembled in the courtyard cheering her standing above them all, tall and proud, as the mantle of the Inquisitor settled around her shoulders as if it always belonged there.

They talk when she's here, daily, basically, but they don't really _talk_, and for the first time, Cullen starts to realize that maybe she missed that too.

"Inquisitor Trevelyan," she says slowly, and then there is that snort again, and Cullen isn't sure why, but the word '_adorable'_ somehow sneaks into his thoughts as she scrunches up her nose. "My family is having a cow, probably."

"I doubt that," it comes to his lips almost instantly, and they share a chuckle. "No, listen, Roxanne, "he starts, hoping he's not making an absolute blunder out of this. "You were already our leader in all but title, and do not doubt that, not for a second. You've proved it over and over again, and…" He breaks off, realizing that his voice is a lot less professional than he'd like it to be, and he clears his throat, covering his embarrassment, he hopes.

"Thank you, Cullen," Roxanne whispers, narrow fingers reaching up and touching his own, still on her shoulder. "Haven was…close," that's all she says and Cullen swallows.

"And I sent you out there to die," he says, rougher than usual, but it's finally out there, between them, the final, the last and the biggest reason why he kept himself apart.

"I don't recall I needed to be commanded," she answers, eyebrows slightly up. "Cullen, if you think that it would have been your fault…"

"I don't think it was my _fault_." He hopes she understands; he's willing her to _understand_ as he explains. "I commanded the forces of the Inquisition; you, at that point, were not, in any official capacity, under my command, but, as you rightly pointed out, were a volunteer, a free agent if you will—and you were _willing_ to do it. The fact that you were our only hope to forestall the Elder One while we evacuated, that you would be a _diversion_, was undeniable, and I _would_ make that call again if I had to: it was the right thing to do. Command decisions are all like that, and if you're not willing to live with them, you're not suited for this kind of job. You came through, and out of it all, and returned to us for the second time." He really wants this not to come out so harsh, so… stark. "But we should have been better prepared; there should have been contingency plans, something that might have called for less than desperate measures such as potentially sacrificing the Herald of Andraste. _That_ is what my fault was, and that is what I need to prevent now even more, that you're officially our leader."

"All right, I accept that," Roxanne says simply, with the eyes of a student who just stumbled upon one of the universal truths of her trade. She nods, even, but then she looks up at him, and her lips tremble slightly, and Cullen's insides just _twist_. "It, however, does not explain your letters."

"My… letters?" She keeps yanking the firm terrain out from underneath him, it seems, and he does not do good on uncharted waters; he stammers. "Oh, you mean the responses to your…"

"Indeed." Roxanne lowers her hand, cool fingers releasing his; Cullen feels a pang of regret. "I was so pleased that you… that so many survived after Haven, that I can help rebuilding, that I can go out there again and help you… and the others, I mean. I suppose I wanted to share that; wanted to ask your advice, and, especially after I was made Inquisitor, I wanted some words from a…friend." Her voice is tentative and suddenly sounding very lonely. "I do not wish to place a burden on you that you might not want to carry, or sound like a delicate flower, but honestly, I hoped…"

"That I would live up to my own standards?" It's ironic, really, but that's the long and the short of it; why people like Cassandra or Roxanne trust him still escapes Cullen. "That I put my money where my mouth is, to use a crude Fereldan phrase?" That earns him a smile and a slight headshake, but she does not turn away, so he plunges ahead. "If I apologize most sincerely, would the Lady Inquisitor Trevelyan allow her Commander to atone?"

He makes a formal bow, clenches his teeth and hopes for the best.

"Hm." She is definitely smiling now; there's that _thing_ in his chest again. "That depends on, you know, how much time you can dedicate to, let's see, resume our morning practices at least twice a week when I am here, and the quality of your missives while I am on the road, my good _ser_."

"A deal," he says quickly, and she finally laughs. There is no dignity in that laugh whatsoever: Roxanne Trevelyan laughs with a full, rich, openmouthed, head-thrown-back way that is absolutely unladylike and yet utterly _her_; Cullen finds that he can barely breathe.

"I needed that," she says, still chuckling, looking at him sideways. "What?" she asks, hand stilling as she sweeps a few errant tendrils of her hair behind her ear.

"What _what_?" he asks back; yes, he's staring at her, but…

"You are staring," she says gently. "I am aware that I do not conform to the gentle noble lady stereotype the tales of chivalry often describe in situations like this, but a bit less emphasis on just how uncouth my laughter is would be appreciated…"

"Oh." His ears are definitely red now. "No! It's not…I was not thinking that you are… Maker's Breath!" he bursts out, desperately. "How do you _do_ that?"

"Practice, and years of living in Orlais," she says smoothly, turning towards the great central keep of Skyhold and starting to walk slowly along the path. "I really should apologize, but after a while it becomes almost a reflex and you _are_ such an easy mark."

"I'm out of my element, that's what I am," he mutters, rubbing his neck; now that they had that conversation, he feels considerably lighter, but that, he suspects, doesn't mean he shouldn't be on his toes when talking to her.

_On the contrary, Rutherford. On the contrary._

"_Oh, la_. If you stick with Josephine, Leliana and I that can be easily remedied." A chuckle. "You would not be the first to be put off by my…'braying', my brothers called it, actually."

"No way!" Cullen says, earnestly. "Sounds like your siblings were just as insufferable as mine."

"Oh, I don't know about _that_," Roxanne sounds amused. _Maker, but it's good talking to her like this_, Cullen thinks. "Perhaps we should compare stories. So you have family, too? In Kirkwall?"

"No; they used to live in Honnleath, southwest Ferelden, not too terribly far away from here, actually, but they moved to South Reach when the Blight broke out—they are still there." He pauses. "I don't really…have anyone in Kirkwall, anymore."

"I see." In the darkness of the courtyard he can only see her profile and a glimpse of silver in her eyes, but he clearly hears her take a deep breath. "So: no one special, then?"

And as Cullen answers with a certainty that he, until now, only reserved for the great truths of the Faith, he feels that strange pressure around his heart ease up somewhat.

"No. Not in Kirkwall."


	5. Fool Girl

**Fool Girl**

_I'm just a stranger, even to myself.  
A re-arranger of the proverbial bookshelf.  
Don't be a fool girl, tell him you love him.  
Don't be a fool girl, you're not above him.  
__-Ingrid Michaelson, Die Alone_

_**A/N: I**__**'**__**m trying something different this time; hope it comes across right. Yes, my sweet Trevelyan is quite messed up in the head. I am also fiddling around with the way the Inquisitor learns about Cullen**__**'**__**s decision not to take lyrium. I understand why the devs/writers did it a certain way for game reasons, but it irked me that even though you**__**'**__**re the leader of this huge organization, you don**__**'**__**t find out one of the main weaknesses of your Chief of Staff until slightly late for my taste.**_

_**Notes on quotes: **_

_**The paragraph "All of the Fallow Mire is divided into three parts" is paraphrasing the opening of C. Julius Caesar's De Bello Gallico. Roxanne's personality and writing style tries to be partly Roman auctor/statesman, partly exuberant Edmond Rostand hero (think Cyrano de Bergerac) and partly Jane Austen heroine. I humbly ask for forgiveness for the mess; she is entirely my fault, while the rest belongs to Bioware.**_

"_**The punishment of every disordered mind is its own disorder,"—is from the Confessions of Augustine of Hippo.**_

_From the personal journal of Roxanne Trevelyan_

As suggested by Mother Giselle, this journal shall serve as a collection of my observations and thoughts whilst journeying in service of the Inquisition. Personally it feels odd to entrust thoughts of such nature on paper; the Revered Mother, however, assures me this could be part of my on-going efforts to combat the affliction that plagued me ever since the Temple Breach Incident. She gifted me with this journal as well. I do hope she does not expect me to make progress reports the same way she questions me every time at the newly established chantry gardens as I dig through the soil. I have learned patience during my _chevalier_ training, but that and respect for the Chantry can only take one so far when peppered with deeply personal inquiries by one's self-appointed spiritual advisor.

Mother sent a shipment of plants from her personal gardens, along with a handwritten copy of her recipe book (_marginal note_: _copy out the burn scar balm recipe for Elan and Adan, they will need it for the infirmary; the new surgeon seems to be capable but clueless in certain regards_). The letter that arrived alongside was long and meandering, very much the way her thoughts are, but I welcomed it with great joy. They thought us all dead after the destruction of the Temple, and then, merely weeks after finally reestablishing contact, the Elder One fell on Haven, and my family mourned me for the second time. To be able to reassure them, thanks to Leliana's network of scouts, spies and ravens, that I am well and, moreover, was honored with leading an organization dedicated to serving the original intentions of Our Lady (or so I believe); it was beyond miraculous.

Mother was also thoughtful enough to inquire about the climate here before dispatching her crates of pots full of cuttings as it might have been difficult to establish some of the plants she has successfully cultivated in Ostwick under the more frigid weather of the Frostbacks. She, however, also sent along some drawings of a hothouse, which, I need to report with not a small amount of satisfaction, sent our new quartermaster Ser Morris to fits of enthusiasm and Josephine to question the validity of next month's budget forecast in the strongest terms. After explaining to her, however, the needs this addition to our gardens might serve (supported most enthusiastically, I might add, by Solas who pointed out the healing qualities of certain plants we could obtain more readily in this manner), she acquiesced and Ser Morris could move forward with construction.

My parents also informed me that they are planning to visit Skyhold in the near future, provided Papa's gout improves somewhat. However much Mother attempts to underplay the severity of the attacks, I cannot help but worry. He wasn't at the best of health for years, and, despite the research Mother and Rhodri dedicate to improving their healing ointments, he is apparently in almost constant pain every day now. I, of course, inquired with both Solas and Vivienne regarding the possibility of a consultation when (and if) Papa makes the journey, and both were willing to dedicate some of their time to do so. I suppose there are some hidden advantages to holding the position with which I was entrusted.

What really puzzles me, though, is the last part of Mother's letter: so much so that I thought it prudent to copy the passage here verbatim. I endeavor to record not only my own thoughts and feelings in this journal, but those that led them to manifest, after all.

"_You have dedicated a large part of your missive to recount the events of your miraculous escape from your ordeals, my dear (and I lit a dozen candles by Our Lady__'__s altar at the Ostwick chantry, you can be sure). However, I couldn't help but notice you describing the actions of a certain Commander of the Inquisition__'__s forces in greater detail than others__' __of your close acquaintance in your new role. Your father is, of course, of the opinion that the man was merely doing his duty. He also mumbled something about him being mixed up in that sordid business in Kirkwall but, of course, everyone was mixed up in that sordid business in Kirkwall who lived there; by extension we were mixed up in it too by employing Messere Fenris as our weaponmaster—I pointed that out to him, but you know how he gets. Now, me, on the other hand… but I wouldn__'__t want to pry. I__'__m just glad you pay attention to other things than your duties, swordplay, books and digging in the dirt."_

That bothers me, I must confess. What might have given the notion to Mother that my thoughts regarding Commander Rutherford are anything other than the entirely justified professional appreciation of his qualities that allowed us to escape Haven with minimum possible casualties and to set up at our new headquarters with maximum speed and efficiency? I _might_ have dedicated a passing sentence or two to the kindness he displayed towards me in my less… fortunate moments when my affliction took me and his willingness to educate me further in the arts of war both with weapons and in the theory of warfare and high command, but Mother's insinuation that I…

I promised to Mother Giselle that I would be truthful on these pages and hold nothing back; as I, at the moment cannot quite come to terms with what a closer examination of my past actions reveal, I shall set this particular train of thought aside, and dedicate the upcoming pages to notes regarding certain mission objectives here at the Fallow Mire region of Ferelden, our current location. These notes, at a later date, might also be added to others I have already taken, to serve as a recounting of sorts, of the deeds and action of the Inquisition in these troubled times.

…

All of the Fallow Mire is divided into three parts: in one of which, commonly known as Fisher's End, most of the settlements are concentrated; the Avvar camps and settlements in the second, and the Mire proper, with its legions of undead, are the third. All these differ from each other in significant manner and while there are several other classifications of the landscape, this should serve for the purpose of this narrative. The forces of the Inquisition, after exhaustive reconnaissance by Chief Scout Harding's platoon, arrived at the Fisher's End camp at the second day of Parvulis (_marginal note_: _I have decided to use the scholarly notation of months; this will, no doubt, please Dorian greatly_) and, after brief rest, pushed forward into the Mire proper, disposing undead on the way, in order to ascertain the fate of missing Inquisition soldiers from the Third Company of Fereldan Infantry…

I shall stop there for now. I must admit, this seems a rather dry way of describing our grueling weeks in constant rain, thunder and lightning, the stink of dead flesh and fish, but as I shall take my examples from the classical authors of great campaigns (_marginal note_: _make sure to order Calenhad__'__s Memoirs for the library from Val Royaux_), it seems necessary.

Dorian has mentioned he might be able to use his still existing connections to obtain Darinius' _Tevinter Campaigns_. I tried to contain my enthusiasm; at the Academy we, of course, studied the badly preserved later commentaries on the original text, but to actually read the thoughts of the unifier of two kingdoms… Incidentally, during one of those long, drawn-out campfire discussions that are inevitable when one is on second watch, it seems we also found out we are third cousins twice removed. I have to write to Fredick once back in Skyhold: he is the current keeper of our family records and if anyone is able to decipher a supposed Tevene marriage to a great-great aunt, it is him. This, of course, partially explains why Dorian and I get along reasonably well, while still wanting to strangle each other on a fairly regular basis. We both have singularly strong personalities, according to him, and the drive to see our people succeed and shine, free of the yoke of whatever tyranny might threaten it; he just does it with a much better fashion sense, he says. He also plays chess. I discovered this yet again during one of those long watches. As Chief Scout Harding's traveling set is somewhat weather-beaten (this is a euphemism for 'barely holding together', actually) and on its last legs (currently a button is serving as one of the High Clerics, I am afraid), I shall discuss the need for something for Skyhold once we are back—I am confident Ser Morris knows just the right person for that job. Also, to replace the one Harding has, and maybe discussing the possibility of distributing some kind of game to each platoon so they have something else to do during downtime than drink…

That was unworthy of me. Also, this seems to be directly invading on Commander Rutherford's sphere of responsibility. Albeit I am the head of the Inquisition, the troops are under his direct command. I am heading small special operations missions when out on the field; it does not follow I have the right to make decisions about his troops' welfare over his head.

It would not hurt to mention it to him, though. It is possible to send regular missives back to Skyhold now that our communication lines are established, and during our last conversation it seemed we have reached a convivial enough understanding of our positions. I am deeply grateful for him allowing me to explain how it seemed to me he retracted his offer of camaraderie back in Haven. His apology was, no doubt, sincere, and the quality of his letters improved considerably since our conversation. All in all, I am most pleased by the way our conversation turned out; I would like to think that we parted as friends, reassured in our shared bond of harrowing experiences shaping the way we look at the world. At least his last remark that evening suggested that; I obviously would be a complete fool to read anything more into it. I might want to discuss with him the necessity of appearing in public in mixed company more often, though; no one of his age should blush and stammer the way he does when I mention anything even slightly out of line. His smile, though, more than makes up for it…

_Maker_. How treacherous this line of thought is; how did I get from discussing the regions of the Fallow Mire to reminiscing about the way Cullen Commander Rutherford smiles (however pleasant those memories might be)? I shall most definitely spend some time in prayer and contemplation once back at Skyhold.

And now, I believe it is time to turn in for the night; Cassandra is giving me the glare of someone who really would like to sleep but the light of the candle is keeping her up and she is too polite to mention it even though I know she has a book hiding under her blanket she was reading while I scribbled. But we shall not mention that, at least for now.

…

Well. I do not believe the stink shall ever wash out of my armoring doublet and gambeson, but at least the Fallow Mire is secure and pacified for the moment. I shall, in time, include my mission reports in the collection to chronicle the Inquisition's deeds, but for now suffice to say that not only have we secured two camps and closed two Fade Rifts, but the primary objective of the mission, rescuing our captured patrol, was also achieved. Commander Rutherford should be pleased; our soldiers were exhausted and some of them bruised from rough handling by the Avvar that detained them none too gently, but all of them were found alive. In addition, their captors have been dealt with, and their leader, along with his closest allies, did not survive that encounter.

As an unexpected, but welcomed side effect of our operation, some of the local tribesmen have decided to ally themselves with our cause. One of them, a shaman named Sky Watcher, shall prove most useful, I believe, as a free agent. I have dispatched a small escort of scouts with him to Skyhold, bearing a report to the advisory council, with the notion that I shall follow along once our clean-up activities are concluded. By clean-up I did not merely mean making sure the source of undead activity was discovered and neutralized (albeit that has been accomplished as well), but quite literally, making sure our persons, equipment and belongings were fit again for human contact after the weeks in the bogs. I am well acquainted with the hardships of campaigns by now, I believe, and even before the mantle of Herald and Inquisitor has been thrust upon me I could hardly have been considered a pampered Orlesian flower, but what we encountered in the Mire shall forever be remembered when the cooks are serving fish on Fridays. Or so Varric says.

I am, also, by now, an expert in washing clothes in shallow pools of water heated by magefire and have been gently instructed in the ways of scrubbing by none other but a scion of Nevarra's royal family. Will wonders never cease? Cassandra, as I had ample opportunity to discover since we first started to travel together, is very familiar with self-sustenance methods and wilderness survival, and I finally managed to swallow enough of my oft-cursed aloofness and ask her for instructions which she readily provided. I still cannot make fire or boil water (I shall never live that down, Varric will make sure of that until the end of my days, I believe), but at least now I do not have to stow stinking clothes at the bottom of my pack and hope for the best. Progress, slow and inevitable, seems to be something I need to embrace, even if it is accompanied by the amused chuckles of a dwarf and a Tevene mage and the exasperated sighs of a Nevarran princess.

Mother Giselle also agrees I am making progress and should continue recording my musings. She, of course, did not ask to see the journal itself, which caused considerable relief, along with the realization that I must seem to be incredibly naïve in this regard (_marginal note: see in library anything about the role of personal journals in later published memoirs, or else order treatises on such?_). She also was pleased by our recent acquisition of dawn lotus and blood lotus plants; after a day of intense replanting work, they are doing fine in the artificial pond we have built for the spindleweed. It was worth toting those horrible-smelling bog-filled leather bags across most of Ferelden, even more so after Leliana showed me the recipe she possesses for a substance our scouts can use for poisoning their blades. While I personally never would find use for such a thing, I can see the usefulness of it for those we rely on to gather intelligence or to dispose of advance forces quickly and with certainty. She also indicated Sera might have something to share regarding blood lotus usage and mentioned 'bees' in this context. I must confess I await _that_ discussion with slight trepidation.

As this is a personal journal of mine, I must, in all honesty, record a rather embarrassing incident in it as well, for posterity, along with its follow-up events. It happened the morning after our return to Skyhold, at breakfast that I normally take in the great hall along with many others, just like I did back in Haven. It helps with morale, and I am used to it: at home we always breakfasted together as a family, and at the Academy we rarely had privacy, in accordance with the traditions of that august institution. Therefore, there were quite a few dozen people witnessing when I managed to upend my plate full of bacon on Varric's head when Commander Rutherford smiled at me.

It is not that I am clumsy; far from it. It is not even that the sight of a handsome man smiling should reduce me to a bumbling idiot (and even to an absolute uninterested party our Commander must seem like a veritable embodiment of dignified virility in its finest display). I had plenty of opportunity to get accustomed to that at the Academy—my very survival, in fact, depended on it. That I never chose to act upon the invitations those smiles so clearly conveyed was my choice, always carefully weighed and consciously decided as to be the best course of action. I was, in all honesty, never one to be considered acting 'on a whim' or, as some of my Academy friends put it 'engaging in all of that emotion nonsense'. I would like to believe I do not think myself better than others, as some of my peers at those inevitable moments of confrontation liked to accuse me of.

I feel I should expound upon that somewhat here. Due to my family's position as a fairly insignificant power in the Free Marches, not to mention beyond, and due to my unfortunate lack of ability to express anything that touches upon the subject of feelings and emotions with any coherence, my prospects of securing a valuable, financially and socially advantageous alliance of the sort commonly known as a marriage have been growing more and more dim with each passing year. When I truly embarked upon the path of the warrior that I believed was my course in life as the next leader of our house, I was naturally aware of the increasing concern my parents expressed over my behavior. In plain words, they were desperate enough to send me to the Conclave as our house representative in hopes that I might meet a suitable match amongst the larger than usual sampling of eligible nobles. Now _why_ they entertained this notion, as all my years at the Academy in Val Royeaux did not fulfill their hopes in this regard, I cannot tell. What followed was clearly not quite what either they or I expected, to put it mildly.

But I digress, as I do all too often. Or, perhaps, I am delaying the inevitable analysis of my actions and the conclusions I might arrive. Those terrify me so much I have decided to push them down to the same place I keep the memories of the Breach and Haven. I would like to think it is not nearly as horrifying and yet…

The time grows late and I loathe burning so many candles merely to analyze my feelings. These lavish new quarters cause me to wince every time I see that the new infirmary is still only half-built: no need to add to the feelings of inadequacy right now. I shall finish for today, in hopes that I shall be able to recount what occurred with greater clarity and precision in the morrow.

…

I suppose this is why Mother Giselle suggested I keep a journal. I can see it now. Perhaps this is also a penance for my pride in which case I am even more firmly a believer in the Maker's strange sense of humor than I previously was. With due remorse, then, I return back to the strange events of the morning out of which my musings sprang and to which they keep circling back (and how my cheeks burn even now, remembering!). But I must keep my recounting of events precise and to the facts, avoiding the trap of explaining my actions away with feeble excuses.

This was the first time in weeks that I saw the Commander. As I mentioned previously, we parted under much more amicable circumstances than I had hoped for based on his decidedly distant prior behavior. The few letters we have exchanged while I was traveling to, attending business in, and traveling back from, the Fallow Mire, while naturally mostly regarding Inquisition business, were written in a tone of a more, dare I say it, relaxed manner on both my end and his. It was something that, I must admit, pleased me a great deal. Due to my limited experience of exchanging correspondence with others than my family members, I have never observed reactions from myself such as when spying his particular handwriting on missives arriving into our camps.

As I recalled previously on these pages, in one of my own letters I had mentioned in passing the matter of Harding's chess board as a fine, if somewhat battered, instrument of amusing ourselves between the more vigorous activities of our mission. In a reply I had received shortly before our departure, amongst other things of a nature more related to our overarching military strategy, Commander Rutherford was thoughtful enough to notify me that Skyhold now possessed several craftsmen who would be capable of producing such boards for morale building amongst our troops. As he remarked: '_perhaps upon your return you may find that a game or two sprung up even at the Herald__'__s Rest__'_ and followed that by recounting the tale of him beating Iron Bull at the game. I _might_ have responded to that in a manner entirely inappropriate as to the office of the Inquisitor. In other words, I have been perhaps slightly too forward (my Academy days, I am afraid, have ruined me for being delicate forever), saying that this might not have been the case had I been the opponent.

His hastily scrawled response on the back of our last exchange I had received before my return issued a clear challenge. "_P.S_. _I have not missed your remarks concerning my abilities as a chess player, Inquisitor,_" he wrote, and I read it with what Dorian, without any reason whatsoever, called a 'smug' grin on my face. "_I suggest you practice with Master Pavus. A lot. I also have my own board now. Looking forward to it, C. R."_

This hopefully serves as a somewhat understandable background as to why that morning I behaved in a manner more suitable for a clumsy sixteen-year-old being chivalrously greeted by the Champion of the Empress than for the leader of the Inquisition. My apologies rendered to Varric ('_at least it was bacon. Everything is better with bacon_', he muttered, dabbing at his hair and neck with a handkerchief), and accepting a second plate of breakfast from Flissa who did take it upon herself to make sure I never lack for food while at Skyhold, I made my way to my original destination, and hoped that my facial expression was suitably neutral as I took my place next to the Commander. I was, of course, keenly aware that after the unfortunate accident with the rasher of bacon, more eyes were upon me than necessary, so for the remainder of the meal I restricted myself to polite and businesslike conversation. He inquired after my well-being and I assured him that apart from mosquito bites (countless) and the by then healed cracked rib courtesy of Hand of Korth (one), I was perfectly fine. Only towards the last forkful of eggs I interjected a casual mention of our proposed chess match and I was most pleased when he revealed (after the by now fully expected slight stammer and rubbing of neck) that he did have some time free in the afternoon. The time and place of our meeting agreed upon, I excused myself, citing my scheduled visits with Mother Giselle and Ser Morris, and decided to studiously ignore the odd expression on Dorian's face as I exited the Hall towards my quarters.

My day progressed at a somewhat more rapid pace than I expected. This is, as I gradually came to realize, something that happens inevitably every single time I return from a mission. Duties, meetings, briefs, pressing or perceivably crucial matters that 'only the Inquisitor can solve' and the ever-present pile of documents to be reviewed and signed always ensures that before I know it, it is always 'too late' in the day for something. In this case I was more than fashionably late (even by Orlesian standards) showing up in the Chantry gardens, owing to Leliana's briefing on the latest movements of the civil war between the Empress and his cousin Gaspard.

In my haste, I did not even notice that Commander Rutherford apparently acquired a chess partner whilst I was inexcusably absent.

"Are you… _sassing_ me, Commander?" I distinctly remember that question, and that particular verb: of course it was Dorian Pavus, _altus_ of Tevinter, and I fully expected Commander Rutherford to get all flustered and uncomfortable at that. Dorian, after all, is confident, extravagant, witty, wry and all too eager to embarrass anyone and everyone with shameless flirting, regardless of gender or race, as I oft witnessed in the course of our travels. I have never known Chief Scout Harding to blush as deep scarlet red as she did every single time she spied the Tevene; I honestly do not ever wish to know what it was Dorian said that forever after made Harding redden upon seeing him.

But there I go, digressing again. Journal-keeping appears to be more difficult than I originally thought. The ability of inserting one's comments about what transpired and recording one's emotional reactions with greater precision provides a significantly broader framework that is at once liberating and frightening. "_The punishment of every disordered mind is its own disorder_," one of the ancient Divines once said, and I cannot say I disagree. I shall strive for recording the events that led to one of the most important and disturbing realizations of my life with greater precision and order and less… meandering. In a way, _this_ shall be my punishment.

To my greatest surprise he appeared entirely at ease. Moreover, upon closing at the two of them at the chess table I had to observe that Dorian's remark about that behavior he characterized with such a particularly descriptive word was quite justified. In all of our acquaintance I have never seen the Commander appearing in such a relaxed manner in any situation; not even during his training sessions with the recruits. I would be decidedly unfaithful to the truth if I state that this did not cause me to dwell upon his features perhaps a tad longer than it was deemed polite in good company. I, however, categorically reject Dorian's later accusation about my mouth being open whilst doing so.

"Why do I even bother…" I heard him mutter as I came closer; both of them looked up as they heard my boots upon the gravel path but only Commander Rutherford shot out of his chair seeing me, the relaxed smile on his face replaced by startled realization.

"Inquisitor!"

"Leaving, are you?" Dorian laced his fingers behind his head and stretched, for all intents and purposes looking like one of the small feral cats ruling Skyhold before our arrival. Most of them cluster around the barn and the kitchens, oft seen basking in the sunlight and becoming less shy by the day with us. "Does this mean I win?"

Dorian never passes up an opportunity to throw a verbal barb and I have to watch for it almost by habit by now. The Inner Circle, my closest companions, is, undoubtedly, comprised of several highly competitive and strong-willed individuals. By them, Dorian's constant needling is all too often interpreted as a direct challenge, and it will take a while for that notion to dissipate. I still shudder at the memory of he and Vivienne trading terse sentences that literally filled the air with sparks while the rest of us watched and wondered where would be a good place to hide if the two mages' verbal sparring escalated to something more.

"Are you playing nice?" I could not help that my voice came out much like that of my aunt's, used when she inquired about why my brand new gown was torn after a mock sparring match with Fredick. In retrospect, I should not have been surprised when I received the equivalent of a level stare, a haughty lift of a perfect eyebrow, and a clipped answer, assuring me that of course, _altus_ Dorian Pavus was _always_ nice. My assumption, of course, was that he cheated—he usually does that when _we_ play.

"You need to come to terms with my inevitable victory," he assured the Commander, turning his attention back to the board and moving his High Cleric. "You'll feel much better."

I surveyed the board and was distinctly disinclined to share his optimism. As I am completely honest on these pages (and indeed that makes me slightly uncomfortable), I need to state that while I am not the best chess player (not even amongst my own family), I am perfectly capable of deducing when one is completely and utterly eliminated and does not even realize it. Dorian is a lovely person, and he has the mind of a Tevene aristocrat, that is true, but the Commander is an ex-Templar officer, the leader of an army that has been tried and tested by fire several times, and a military strategist _par excellence_ as they say at the Academy. He has played out campaigns, skirmishes, and battles as equivalents of chess matches with actual _people, _on paper and in real life. For _decades._

And I _challenged_ him to a match, to which I arrived late. The realization should have filled me with slight dread—instead, all I felt was a frisson of excitement the way the world normally slid to focus before a higher exam at the Academy.

"Really?" The Commander's queen clicked on the board and Dorian frowned slightly. "Because I just won." There was a chuckle and I definitely felt my stomach clench in a not entirely unpleasant way as he leaned back in his chair. "And I feel fine."

"Don't get smug." Dorian threw up his hands and his voice was sour as he rose from his chair. This was the second time he used a descriptive term that I never would have associated with Commander Rutherford. I must admit, however, that the smile that was playing around his lips at that moment fit the mage's description. "There will be no living with you."

I stepped closer, and because I could not resist needling Dorian a bit (I suppose this was, from my part, an attempt at payback for all his remarks towards my companions), smiled at him with my best approximation of an Orlesian lady.

"I appreciate you keeping my seat warm, _cousin_." I paused for effect. Dorian somehow always brings out the part of me that positively enjoyed _that_ particular part of my years in Val Royeaux. "Even though the Tevene playing style is perhaps not _quite_ up to what the Commander might have expected."

"Kick the mage while he's down, will you?" Dorian muttered, but his eyes were dancing. "Perhaps you shall be more fortunate in… conquering his defenses?"

"I am hardly an expert at strategy," I demurred, then realized what his words might have implied and, in all honesty, contemplated something entirely unprofessional and violent that I might have regretted later. Instead, I decided to ignore the remark and the inevitable images it conjured. (I wonder why this rattles me so when I endured much worse at the Academy?) "If the Commander forgives my lateness, perhaps he still cares for a game?"

He tilted his head and nodded slowly, gesturing at the vacated chair. I sat, watching his hands preparing the board and listening to Dorian's steps fade in the distance.

"I appreciate your patience," I said at last. He was in full armor again, except the simple leather gloves one wears under the gauntlets, and I could not help but wonder if he always started his day this way. I knew it wasn't his turn with the recruits today: I am privy to the schedule of all of the advisors, and his is fairly predictable. That day it was Cassandra spending training time with the recruits, and the Commander with requisitions and arms and armor development, meaning he had meetings with Ser Morris, Rylen, his second-in-command, Harritt, our blacksmith, and our new arcanist, Dagna.

Naturally, if I am being completely honest with myself (and I am supposed to, as I so often have to remind myself on these pages), the reason for the full armor each and every day _is_ rather apparent, at least for me. I have done very much the same during my years at the Academy, drawing endless stares and verbal criticism of various stages from sniggers to downright hostile remarks. I convinced myself it was to develop the musculature of the female body to the sufficient degree that is necessary to bear the heavy armor of a _chevalier_; towards the end of my last year I even saw some of the few female students starting to do the same. My actual reason, the one I hid from everyone, though, was the very real, very physical barrier the steel plates delineated towards everyone else. I was, as I remarked elsewhere, a definite anomaly at the Academy, a half-Orlesian from the Free Marches, and a female (despite the legend of Dame Aveline, very few noble-born women choose the life of a _chevalier_). I was accepted not purely on the merits of my talent, noble blood, and promise but due to my mother's family connections: a statement, which, I realized after I had returned from my two years' absence, several other students also shared. They merely chose not to take the sentiment to such extremes as wearing the armor at all times.

Even I, though, chose to forgo the pauldrons most of the time: unlike the Commander.

"It is, unfortunately, the nature of your position," he said, setting down the last pawn. "I do appreciate the gesture of offering, though."

Something in the way he worded that sentence sent up a warning signal. I remembered my discussion with Cassandra during our recent travels when talk turned to how she and Commander Rutherford met and I started paying attention to _how_ he said things, not just _what_ he said.

"The _gesture_?" I asked, really hoping I was misreading this. "Commander…" I looked around, saw that the garden was deserted, and continued, "…Cullen, I am right here. As promised. By the definition of the word, that is hardly a gesture: that is a promise fulfilled, albeit with some delay."

"Should I charge interest for my time, then?" Gone were the carefree smile and the relaxed gestures that made my stomach flutter just a few minutes before. He was tense now, leaning back from the board, shoulders hunched and brows drawn down, voice almost angry.

I waited, my face carefully neutral, the way I was taught at the Academy.

"I'm sorry, Roxanne," he said more quietly after the second of silence drew out, and sighed. "That was… uncalled for. I shouldn't be unkind when your time is so precious and I appreciate that…" He rubbed at his neck, over the old wound he tried to pretend never bothered him. "Forgive me?"

I observed the details, like _messere_ Fenris taught me years before, and decided that there was not enough data to reach a conclusion just yet. It might or might not have been some kind of inevitable reaction to his decision not to take lyrium anymore, and the withdrawal symptoms, based on what Cassandra told me, were unpredictable at best.

_It is uncharted territory, Inquisitor_, she told me while gazing into our campfire that evening. _No Templar in living memory has ever given up lyrium willingly. As you know, we spend a considerable amount of gold and resources to secure the substance for our Templar contingent, and Ser Barris has been invaluable with bringing his connections in Orzammar to aid us. Cullen, however, has decided, shortly after joining the Inquisition, not to partake. _Her normally remorseless gaze softened as she looked at me. _You probably should have heard this directly from him, but I know you have excellent perception skills and probably picked up on it back in Haven. The other advisors are aware, for security reasons: Leliana suggested that I talk to you during this trip as we would prefer to keep it quiet._

"Of course." I was, however, inordinately pleased with the fact that he _did_ call me by my name, and that allowed me to slip back to the language of the Game again. It was probably careless of me, but the memory of that lopsided smile still lingered, low in my stomach. "Although technically you _would_ be within your rights to… charge interest, yes, if you so desire."

That earned me a blush, up to his ears. I bit my lip and studied the board. I truly had no idea what I was doing: and I am not necessarily talking about chess.

"I shall... take that into advisement, Inquisitor. Roxanne," he corrected himself and it was my turn to grin. When I looked up, I found that he was staring at me with a soft expression that made him look entirely too vulnerable and made me want to reach out and touch his hair where it curled back just a little bit from his neck.

I was absolutely unfair to the man. He was—he is- obviously way too professional to tell me outright that my clumsy attempts at the Game and what amounts to (_Maker_, how I blush while writing this!) _flirting_ were, while slightly flattering, clearly unwelcome and were making him distinctly uncomfortable. I _am_ really bad at this, with nothing to rely on but my mother's most basic instructions and my Academy experiences, and nothing in the code of the _chevaliers_ or in my mother's etiquette books could have prepared me to answer the question: how does one in my position tell someone in his position that I…

Well, _bother_. Journal-keeping, apparently, has a way of making one unfailingly honest. Let us see if I can continue with the same precision I require of myself in all other areas of my life. It is odd, how I am missing several hours of my life from back when the Breach appeared and the Temple burned, and yet I appear to have almost perfect recall of each and every one of my meetings with the Commander. The way his kindness, his steady voice and rock-solid presence pulled me back from the edge of madness back at Haven after one of Solas' spells almost recalled just a bit too closely the traumatic events at the Conclave that were—that are- still missing from my memory. The way he never looked at me like I was a monstrosity, a woman with a glowing hand, bleached hair and Fade-tinted eyes, forever changed by something no one understood. The way he held himself in the Haven chantry, trying to hide just how hard the concentrated arcane effects of those mages attacking us hurt him, and still thinking clearly and about our people first and foremost. The way he bent over the war table, absently accepting cups of strong coffee from Josephine's hand at our early morning sessions while sorting through stacks of reports and murmuring 'thank you, Ambassador'. The way he held me, firmly but gently, to his chest when he found me in the snow after Haven was obliterated, his heartbeat frantic in one second and steady and reassuring while he carried me back to the camp. And oh, the way he said 'not in Kirkwall' to my question not so long ago regarding whether he had anyone special in his life…that made me hope against hope that a man such as him could…

Indeed, that original word I wished to use, 'fancy', no longer applies, I see that now. I am not entirely sure what this is, but definitely more than professional interest, definitely more than girlish infatuation as I attempted to define it at first and definitely more than what he ever could reciprocate.

"Have you learned to play chess in the Order?" I inquired, just to fill the uncomfortably long silence between us while I pondered my next move and was relieved that none of my perturbed thoughts influenced my voice.

"Hmmm?" He seemed to relax a bit as I eased back into more neutral territory. "Actually, as a child, I would play this with my sister." He moved his knight; his voice was wistful, full of remembrance. "She would get this stuck-up grin whenever she won, which was all the time." The softness on his features was still there, brought on, no doubt, by the memories. Of course. It was nothing whatsoever to do with me. "My brother and I practiced together for weeks. The look on her face the day I finally won…" He paused. "Between serving with the Templars and the Inquisition, I haven't seen them in years. I wonder if she still plays."

"If for nothing else, surely for the hope of a rematch…" I started, then stopped as what he said finally sunk in. "Wait: are you implying that you have not told them you were alive?"

"I, ah…" I could have just rested my chin on my palm all day and stared at that blush. At his face. "I do not write to them as often as I should, perhaps…"

"Cullen!" I could not help myself; I glared. "They are your _family_! If my parents had to learn from scuttlebutt and hearsay I was pulled out of certain death not once, but _twice _by the Maker's grace, I would most assuredly be dead by _their_ hands. Not to mention my brothers'." I softened my voice—that sounded way too harsh. "My apologies; it is presumptuous of me to think I can…"

"No!" he said hastily. "No, you're, of course, right. I shall… consider what you've said." He watched me move my piece, then asked. "What about you, though?"

"You mean, where did I learn to play chess so awfully?" I lifted an eyebrow. "Please do not be polite; someone with your experience by now, no doubt, has reached that inevitable conclusion."

"I actually meant to inquire about your family… if I may," he said, softly and to my even greater embarrassment, I felt my cheeks flush.

"Oh. I see." I covered my mouth, feigning a cough and started to talk a bit faster to cover my _faux pas_. "As you no doubt have read in Leliana's files, both of my parents are still alive, and I have two brothers, Fredick and Rhodri. I am the eldest, but my new… position might complicate things a bit as far as inheritance is concerned. I actually plan on signing some documents once they manage to make it here to cede my rights to Fredick; he already manages everything anyway, Papa… my father being incapacitated." I paused to explain. "It's gout, from campaigns in Emprise du Lion." He nodded: of course he understood, being the military man himself. "If I ever have to go there, I am to take goose-feather bedrolls, avoid the local liquors and keep my armor extra dry. I have been thoroughly educated in that regard. To be honest, I am not sure how, or when, he would be able to travel here, but I keep hoping."

"We have great healers in Skyhold," the Commander said warmly as he moved his other knight. I felt something flutter in my chest as I heard his reassurance. "I believe something could be done."

"I hope, too." I sighed, remembering the last time I saw him before I left for the Conclave. "I just hate to see him so… invalid. When I was a child, I always thought him absolutely invincible. He was the man who tossed me up in the air and let me yank on his beard, who carried me upside down by my foot all over Val Royeaux when I was five, not minding the slightest that it scandalized everyone who met us." I giggled at the memory. "I am afraid that forever cemented our reputation as savage Marchers; me squealing in delight as Papa lifted me up by my ankle, my carefully coiffed hair all falling over my face and my frilly knickers exposed for all the world to see. When I went back to train at the Academy, I was absolutely convinced some of the students there actually remembered me and lived in terror for _months_. Awful, I know," I added, looking up and seeing him with a disbelieving grin on his face.

"I must confess, Inquisitor," he started, then shook his head and started over, "Roxanne, I am having serious trouble picturing that scene."

"Oh?" Both of my eyebrows went up. "The frilly knickers or the terror about people remembering them?"

And there I was, disguising yet again with that light Orlesian-style flirtation what I so clearly was not able to articulate. Surely, there was no hope for me and yet, the tone of his voice compelled me to try, again and again, like being in the Serpent's Stance forever against impenetrable armor to see if I could find that little gap. And I wanted to; that realization was hitting me worse than the moving, blade-strewn pells of the Academy training grounds ever did.

"Maker's Breath…" he muttered the only curse I have ever heard from him, and shook his head. His eyes, when he looked at me, were not exactly disapproving, but the way he held himself away from the table, shoulders slightly turned, told me the truth. "Must you… do that?"

"I apologize." I answered promptly. Of course: I was a silly girl, dreaming about the impossible, the student being knocked over by her vastly more experienced opponent, the amateur being chastised by the master. I straightened my spine and dropped my hands to my lap, tightly and primly clutching right over left, eyes downcast, the way my mother so unsuccessfully attempted to teach me the manners of a noble lady. "I shall endeavor to behave less offensively in the future, should you so wish."

"I don't… I… Roxanne." I heard his sharp, frustrated sigh and then felt a hand slide under my chin, lifting it up. "This may be the longest we've gone without discussing the Inquisition. Or related matters." His touch, even through the gloves, sent little thrills through my spine the way it never did before. I bit my lip to contain the shivers that had nothing to do with the cool wind rattling the branches of the bush next to our seats and everything to do with staring into his eyes. "To be honest, I appreciate the distraction."

"Does that mean we should spend more time together?" It came out as a question, albeit a bit breathless. He snatched back his hand as I spoke, but not before some of his fingers swept down my neck, leaving me thoroughly confused. It is not exactly as if I am well-versed in matters of the heart, but his signals were absolutely confusing and…

"I would… like that." He sounded almost wistful; he glanced down, head tilted a bit to the side, as if trying to remember something long forgotten.

"Me too." I nodded for emphasis. I threw all my dice at once, it seemed, like during those evening games at the Academy, and now my world hung in a balance. I was waiting to see, with bated breath, how it turned, for better or for worse.

And there was a smile, twisting the scar at the side of his lip, voice the softest I have ever heard from him, almost a whisper.

"You said that." He looked back up, straight into my eyes. I was not sure why it felt like my heart just broke into a thousand pieces seeing that smile, but I swear I can still feel it now as I write. As if there was something in his past, something horrible and dark that made him question the smallest kindness, the tiniest happy thought or joy; anything that wasn't duty, war, reports and strategies.

I know the Mark did not grant me any special powers apart from being able to close rifts and banish demons: I have no magical powers, no mystical abilities, no communing with the Maker or His Bride, whatever the whispers say. I am just a woman who is very good at killing things. But Andraste preserve me, in that moment I wished I could just heal away whatever had hurt him so thoroughly that he had to convince himself I was not merely a dream.

"We should… finish our game." He cleared his throat after what seemed like an eternity; I glanced at the board, tearing myself away from the amber swirls in his eyes, and realized neither of us had moved any of our pieces in quite a while. "Right. My turn?"

Yes. This journal-writing definitely took me to places within my heart and soul I did not expect to reach while attempting to serve the Maker and Our Lady to the best of my abilities. Quite a journey, and entirely due to Mother Giselle's insistence. I shall dedicate some time to contemplate this in the Chantry, and soon.

At the moment, however, I must fetch some cold water. Quite possibly an entire bucketful.


	6. Stains of Time

**Stains of Time**

_**Author**__**'**__**s Notes:**_

_**1\. Warning: this mostly will be unpleasant and rough, at least in the beginning—as dealing with withdrawal effects often is. Proceed at your own risk if you are sensitive to such things- I don**__**'**__**t like to revel in gory details, but I think it**__**'**__**s important for character development purposes. It gets better at the end, I promise.**_

_**2\. There is some deviation from canon in this chapter as well; as always, I like to stay faithful to the spirit of the story and characters, rather than word-by-word repetition.**_

_**3\. The Hawke here is my Marian Hawke from the Nothing Stands Between us series. She is a certified snarkmonster, although the events in Kirkwall certainly left their mark on her.**_

_**4\. Songs for this chapter are the quoted ones below; the quotes are from the Canticle of Transfiguration.**_

_I wear this crown of thorns,__  
__Upon my liars chair,__  
__Full of broken thoughts,__  
__I cannot repair,___

_Beneath the stains of time,__  
__The feelings disappear,__  
__You are someone else,__  
__I am still right here._

_-Johnny Cash, Hurt_

_Night falls heavy like an iron fist  
The silence taut and frail  
I weigh the depths of love and terror  
In this test I cannot fail  
'Cause there__'__s no map to guide the human heart  
Down roads we__'__ve never been  
Sometimes I feel I__'__m running blind but I__'__m trying_

_-Sarah McLachlan, Turn the Lights Down Low_

She comes to him in the small hours of the night, when Skyhold is silent and only the echoing footsteps of the guards on the battlements break the silence. She comes to him when the rain falls steadily outside, bringing the winter's chill through the hole in his roof as it drips on the floor at the foot of the bed. She comes to him through the waves of the pounding headache, nausea, chattering teeth, fever and parched throat, the muscle cramps that make him bend in half in sheer agony, the tremors that shake his body enough that his bed rattles.

Through the need and the want she comes, in gauzy veils of Fade-green and lyrium-blue, his hope beyond all hope: Lady of the Hand, Herald of Ease, she comes to him. Hand lifted in silent benediction with its verdant glow, down she kneels by his bedside, veils flittering in the breeze, and caresses his forehead with cool fingers. His eyes flutter in blessed relief as the fingers move to his cracked lips, tracing its outlines, then down gently, ever so gently across his chin, dip into the pooled sweat at the hollow of his throat and continue down on his chest, trailing moisture and cold. Her touch, even moving downward, chases away the dreams of pulsing flesh walls, the agonized screams of friends dissolving in fire, abominations chanting obscene rituals over their charred bodies… Of dark battlements, chains and dungeons, glassy-eyed Tranquils, hollow-eyed mages scuttling by, cringing at his every move as he closes his eyes and turns away, not wanting to know. Of the grotesque red statue of a woman with a curved sword towering over him, vermilion steam rising from her throat in a silent scream.

Oh, blessed is the hand which brings salvation, and blessed is she of lily-white hair, of eyes green as the wisps of the Fade through dreams, and blessed are the veins pulsing on her wrist, lyrium-blue under translucent skin… With lips red as blood, roses, and rubies of the Western desert, she leans over him, lily-white hair brushing his chest, whispering his name into his mouth as her hand, her blessed hand of green fire…

He screams her name when he wakes, heart pounding, throat and chest and loins aching and all too real in the dizzying aftermath of almost-release. He throws the covers away and staggers upright, steadying himself on the bedside table. He feels raindrops on his naked shoulders, cooling his fever and his ardor. Concentrating on the hurt that is tearing at his guts like a rabid animal, Cullen Rutherford stands, hands balled into fists as he takes deep, gulping breaths and tries to chase away the dream that came upon him yet again, uninvited, toying with him and offering false relief in shades of fade-green and lyrium-blue.

But he remembers. He remembers everything.

Slowly, balancing precariously at the knife-edge of pain, he pulls a shirt on, finds his boots, grabs his cloak from its peg, and taking one step at the time, descends the ladder from his sleeping loft to his office below, letting himself rest with clenched teeth between every rung. It is worse than ever, the dream so real, like never before, the _need_ and the _want_ shaking him so badly he cannot clasp the cloak at his throat, and in the end he just wraps the thing around his body like an ancient Tevinter robe. The door handle slips out of his sweaty palm twice before he can open it, and the rain outside slicks his hair back as he turns his face towards the sky: for mercy or for obliteration, he's not sure.

The rampart is blessedly free of any soldiers on patrol as he moves along the wall on legs that barely keep him upright, hand thrust out to support him. He knows he probably doesn't have the strength right now to descend another flight of stairs and walk across the courtyard to the Chantry door, the way his instincts drove him first. He knows he is soaking wet, barely dressed, and probably will throw up in a minute, noisily and messily, like he did just after midnight and the day before. He knows he probably has reached the end of his rope. The contents of the small case he still keeps in the drawer of his desk _sing _to him every single day now, a treacherous but beautiful siren song that becomes harder and harder to resist as he struggles with withdrawal and maintaining the façade of relative normalcy during daytime. Maker help him, but he thought he could be strong enough for this, that he could bear it, he could weather the storm…

Maker forgive him, he was proud enough to think he was better than anyone.

_That dream… Andraste preserve me, that dream_, he thinks, thoughts swirling in Fade-green and lyrium-blue, arms supporting him shaking from the effort to stay upright. He knows exactly what brought it on, too. Ever since their first chess game in the Chantry garden, he can't get her out of his head.

_Her_.

Roxanne Trevelyan. The Herald of Andraste. The Inquisitor.

Cullen grits his teeth, remembering the way her hair glinted in the sunlight filtered through the branches, the graceful sweep of her neck as she pondered her moves, her long fingers, moving the pieces on the board with the same decisiveness she grips her sword on the practice ground… The curve of her lip, slightly exposing a crooked tooth as she smiled. That very Orlesian shrug of hers, that, combined with the flutter of her hands when she got relaxed and started talking about her family, made him stare like a completely, utterly besotted first-year squire might look at his lord's daughter.

_I am gone_, he admits, gritting his teeth. _Not only am I __smitten with the__ Herald of Andraste, I'm having dreams about her. With me. In my room. In my bed. Maker help me, I am imagining her hand on me, like a sixteen-year old novice imagines the resident Chantry sister…_

The words of the _Canticle of Transfigurations_ rise in his thoughts, although they don't make it to his lips. He can only grasp them piece by piece in his mind, painstakingly slotting the sentences together, as he clings to them for some semblance of order and sanity.

_O Maker, hear my cry:  
Guide me through the blackest nights  
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked  
Make me to rest in the warmest places._

He grips the wet stone of the merlon he's leaning against and gulps the air and the rain in great, shuddering sighs as another ripple of the shakes tears through his body. He badly overestimated how much he can endure with the increased workload the rapidly expanding Inquisition army demands of him. His reluctance of delegating finally has caught up with him, throwing his already weakened body and mind into the throes of the worst withdrawal episode since he has left the Order.

And, on top of everything else (as if the admission of his feelings towards the Inquisitor would not be enough) the memories are back… because _Hawke_ is here. Arrived just yesterday, quietly, secretly let into Skyhold by Varric, bringing disturbing news of her fall from power in Kirkwall and how the Templars there, his former comrades, were the cause of her hasty departure. He only saw her briefly: Varric brought her to his office first so she could meet the Inquisitor away from everyone.

"_Look at you." Her lopsided grin did not change at all, but there was early silver in her hair now (Maker, and she is two years younger than he). She looked tired and worn in her old Champion armor, all scuffed and muddy from her travel. "Commander-General of the Inquisition and all that. Nice office, too." For a second the old, irresistible Hawke with her natural force of personality was back as she stooped slightly to kiss his cheek. "I knew you would go up in the world, Cullen."_

He should have known better and taken precautions: if anything could trigger his memories and slip past his carefully built walls of defense, it was her being right there, standing alongside the Inquisitor. His grip slackens on the stone and he feels himself swaying, balance almost lost as the rain gets harder and Nature adds wind to her arsenal. He almost crawls to the little guard shelter built at the side of the tower here and slides down by the wall, once inside, burrowing into his bearskin cloak for warmth as he huddles on the stone floor, shivering. The Canticle rolls at the back of his mind like the pounding of waves on Lake Calenhad's shore so long ago.

_O Creator, see me kneel:  
For I walk only where You would bid me  
Stand only in places You have blessed  
Sing only the words You place in my throat_

Looking at it with the dispassionate and analyzing eyes that he normally uses to evaluate strategy or review chess moves, he can see it clearly now, but it does not help. Strong emotions are usually to be avoided for people in his condition, doubly-cursed as he is with his memories and his withdrawal, and he _knows_ this. He was always such a painful mess when dealing with Hawke, with the way she just _gave_ her friendship freely and without obligation, despite him being who he was, despite her knowing and _not caring_. With her trying to convince him that he still could turn himself around, regardless of what happened at Kinloch Hold, regardless of all that happened in Kirkwall's Circle and him being second-in-command there.

"_I__'__m your friend, you great big lump," Hawke told him after he accepted Cassandra__'__s offer of becoming commander of the newly founded Inquisition. After he told her he was leaving. "Of course I understand."_

If she thought there was something worth that trust and friendship in him, if she thought he could turn over a new leaf and start over, than maybe it was worth all of this. Worth the shakes, the fever, the nausea, the dull pain that is constantly throbbing in his skull now, the _want_ and the _need_ that saps his strength away day by day as he fights the effects of not being a Templar anymore with tooth and nail. Of being just an ordinary man, leading an army of extraordinary means for an extraordinary purpose, serving an extraordinary woman…

_My Maker, know my heart  
Take from me a life of sorrow  
Lift me from a world of pain  
Judge me worthy of Your endless pride _

Cullen closes his eyes and thinks about the way Hawke nudged the Inquisitor standing by her side in his cramped office. She looked travel-worn, skinny, disheveled, and sleep-deprived next to the crisp perfectness of Roxanne's black brocade doublet, freshly polished boots and hair pinned neatly in a tight bun, but her grin and the force of her personality outshone all of that.

"_Isn__'__t he just magnificent?" Marian Hawke whispered, voice all bubbly and proud with an almost-but-not-quite sisterly affection, and Cullen felt horrified at just how utterly improper this was. "Absolutely glorious? Like a sodding lion, isn__'__t he?__" _

_He expected many things to happen that morning and what definitely wasn__'__t on his list was being ogled semi-inappropriately by an old friend, and in front of the Inquisitor of all people. But then he saw Roxanne blush, up to her ears and down to the neckline of her doublet, freckles standing out crimson-dark in the paler shade of her skin, like the most delicate dewdrops on a rose petal. He saw her nod, tremulously, but definitely, biting the corner of her lip just a tiny little bit while doing so, looking at him from under lowered lashes and the flash of heat that went through him seeing that was almost unbearable. Hawke, of course, burst out laughing, squeezed the younger woman__'__s shoulder and muttered something in her ear. Cullen couldn__'__t hear what it was, but if Roxanne__'__s open-eyed incredulous look and stumbling backwards step was anything to go by, it was entirely inappropriate. And so he, naturally, turned towards his bookshelf and started to study the spine of In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar, Volume 22._

Now, in the shelter of the battlement's tiny guard chamber, he takes one more shaking breath, and feels something warm, sleek, and fuzzy bump his hand. Cullen opens his eyes just in time to see an orange, slightly wet mass of fur with sharp claws and scarred ears climbs into his lap. Adjutant Felix, Skyhold's resident ruling tomcat and his self-appointed companion, purrs almost as loud as his own heartbeat as he attempts to make himself comfortable and Cullen almost laughs out loud through the haze of pain and shivers at the insistent way the cat tries to burrow against him. He has heard about the way cats and dogs comfort those who are truly in need of it: seen it in the infirmary here in Skyhold, in fact. He just never expected to receive it from this animal in particular.

_My Creator, judge me whole:  
Find me well within Your grace  
Touch me with fire that I be cleansed  
Tell me I have sung to Your approval _

"I must be a… sorry mess if _you_ want to… comfort me," The words are coming out broken and tumbled, voice rough from pain and thirst, as he digs his trembling fingers into warm fur. There is, of course, no answer, except the purring gets a bit louder. "Perhaps… you just… wanted to get out of the rain."

_Or, perhaps, this is more than either of those_? Cullen shivers again, as he considers the possibility that in an odd way, this might be an answer to his prayers, and whispers the final verse of the _Canticle_ with true fervor.

_O Maker, hear my cry:  
Seat me by Your side in death  
Make me one within Your glory  
And let the world once more see Your favor_

_For You are the fire at the heart of the world  
And comfort is only Yours to give._

"You're sodding hard to find, you know that?" Cullen hears through the rain suddenly, and as he grasps at his side in vain for his sword, he realizes just how easy it would be for anyone with ill intent to finish him now, rain-soaked, shaking and weak from fever.

And just how badly off he is, thinking he could be attacked in the middle of Skyhold.

"What were you thinking, strolling out here in the rain and muttering the Chant, hm?" Marian Hawke slides down to sit next to him, legs stretched out in front of her, body sensibly wrapped in an ugly but practical waxed leather cloak, and winks.

"I could ask the same thing from you…" he croaks out through parched lips. Hawke looks at him sharply.

"_I_ just couldn't sleep. Decided to take a walk and think. You, though…" Her fingers touch his forehead, grab the side of his face, and tilt his head sharply towards her. "Shit, Cullen, you're sick." Her eyes slide down to where Felix watches, sitting up warily, through narrowed eyes. "_And_ you have a cat? What the Fade?"

"Long story. Both." He's not inclined to explain any of that right now. "Just… need some time to… get better."

"Bullcrap." Hawke says gently. "I could always tell when you tried to be a hero, remember?" She pushes some of his rain-slicked hair out of his forehead. "I leave you to your own devices for a while and this is how you end up?"

"Look who's talking, _Viscountess_." That comes out a bit harsher that he intends to, and from the way Hawke recoils, he knows he hurt her a bit. "Shit." He doesn't curse often, but it slips out, seeing the pain on Hawke's face so openly. "Forgive me, that was…"

"Awful, yes, but I'll let it slide this once." Hawke shakes her head, concern etched around her mouth. "Seriously, Cullen, what's going on? Do you…" She stops, eyes narrowing, then suddenly leans into his neck and _sniffs_ him.

"_What_ are you doing?" Cullen can't really raise his voice; he doesn't have the strength, and the way his hand pushes ineffectively on Hawke's arm tells him he really is in a miserable condition.

"Idiot." Hawke whispers fiercely as she straightens, eyes shining. "You forget I had a mage sister and I live with a Tevinter ex-slave who is etched with the stuff. You stopped taking lyrium: I can't smell it on you anymore. Maker, Cullen, you..."

"I'm not a Templar anymore, Hawke," Cullen feels he is repeating a conversation he already had. His head thuds against the stone of the wall as he leans back, slightly panting from the effort of talking. "No lyrium. Blue or red." He pauses again. "There are… side effects."

"No shit." Hawke grunts. "You kind of looked pale but serviceable when we've met earlier, you gorgeous lion, you…" Cullen snorts feebly at that, and Hawke grins as both of them remember, "…but this… How long?"

"Couple of months." He feels another wave of nausea grip him and he leans forward, stomach heaving, throat contracting: Felix jumps off his lap with a very disappointed huffing sound and disappears from sight. "Sorry," Cullen pants, to both Hawke and the cat, then, "I'm going to…" he grinds out as he tries to push up on his knees.

"Stop being polite and just hurl, man." Hawke's arm slides around his shoulder as his whole body shakes violently. "There you go…" Cullen should be mortified, and terribly so, except he remembers things the two of them have been through and those memories made him cease to be really embarrassed by anything in Marian Hawke's company.

So he heaves and gags and coughs and spits without dignity or regard to anything but the pain. There's nothing but bile coming up as he wasn't really able to keep anything down all day. Hawke holds him up and pushes his hair out of his face and croons encouraging nonsense at him and wipes his mouth with the edge of her cloak and thus they are perfectly unaware of anything else, until a sharp intake of breath and a scuff of a booted foot makes both of them glance up briefly.

"Oh, shit," Hawke mutters, and Cullen, through the haze of another spasm of pain, sees Roxanne leaning against the jamb of the guard shelter, face pale and one hand covering her mouth.

The situation is at once awkward and absurd; Hawke freezes for a second and her hand grips Cullen's arm a bit tighter than necessary.

"Just what…" She inhales sharply: Cullen feels her body rise, pressed as he is against her. "Listen, Inquisitor, as you see we have a wee problem here." She gestures at Cullen with her free hand. "I could sure use your help."

"I can see that." Roxanne's voice is steady and even; Cullen sees her kneeling down on his other side, but then he needs to close his eyes and fight the urge to vomit again. "What do you want me to do, _serah_?"

"That a girl." Hawke murmurs, fondness in her voice. "I believe that between the two of us we can get our dear Commander back to his office, maybe to his bed somehow, without calling undue attention to the fact that we're doing it. Would you terribly mind?"

"Not in the least." Roxanne sounds like they are discussing the weather. Cullen opens his eyes to a narrow slit, tentatively: he knows she is not just another phantom conjured by his sickened mind because she is wearing her usual running-around-Skyhold all-black outfit under what looks like a thick woolen cloak lined with wolfskin. _Not a gauzy veil in sight_, Cullen thinks somewhat relieved, as his head spins steadily. He's not sure why she's here on the battlements, but given how Hawke couldn't sleep after their brief meeting today due to whatever else happened before and since she arrived here, maybe Roxanne also felt the need for a stroll in the rain.

"I am assuming this is a lyrium withdrawal side effect, then?" he hears Roxanne asking and for a second he thinks this is just his delirium playing tricks with his mind again.

"Well, he sure as shit isn't huddling here because he wanted to _tumble_ me, honeychild," Hawke says drily, and Cullen would be mortified by both what he says and how she addresses the Inquisitor, if he wasn't already shaken by the fact that Roxanne said…

"You… know?" he croaks out, sharp pain slicing into his skull at every word, and the way Roxanne's mouth twitches just then makes him ashamed of the fact that somehow he never quite got around telling her.

"I believe it _is_ a reasonably good habit for the Inquisitor to be aware of the most pressing issues and potential vulnerabilities of her Inner Circle and advisors." Her voice is crisp but her eyes are distant. "Cassandra was kind enough to brief me on your…particular situation."

"Andraste's dimpled buttcheeks, do you always talk like that?" Hawke stares, disbelieving. "I thought it was just for fancy meetings." Over Cullen's head, the two women stare at each other and he really rather would be somewhere else just then. The moment passes, though, and Hawke chuckles. "Of course you do, Lady Trevelyan. Never you mind me, let's get him inside; we can chitchat later."

"Agreed." Roxanne's voice is cold but her arm slides under his shoulder from the other side, and she's warm, so _warm_ and he'd be absolutely ashamed by his body's reaction to her if he wasn't busy trying not to retch yet again…"On the count of three, then: one, two, three…"

_Make me to rest in the warmest places. _Cullen almost giggles as they haul him upright and the line from _Transfigurations _sneaks into his mind absurdly again; he knows this is definitely his mind going delirious from the fever of withdrawal, and can't help the almost-sob that escapes his lips.

"Careful!" Hawke hisses on his left, thinking they caused him pain. "I'll count the steps out so we're in accord: let's hope no one sees us."

"We will be fine." Roxanne's breath tickles his ear as she turns her head to speak to the other woman. "I know the guard rotation: we have about quarter glass to get to his office. That is plenty: we are about the same height and I am assuming you are used to carrying weight with heavy armor, so…"

"Mightily kind of you, that assumption." Hawke murmurs, slightly amused. "Also, correct." He feels her take a deep breath. "And… left and right and left and right and left…"

By the time they drag him across the threshold of his office and close the door behind them, Hawke is swearing and instead of her, Roxanne is counting the steps. Between clenched teeth, too, Cullen can tell, while he's concentrating on _not_ passing out.

"Maker's Bride on a stick, you're heavy, Cullen!" Hawke grunts, shoving the door close and leaning against it for a moment. "What do they feed you here, bronto steaks by the dozen? Good thing you're not in armor."

"He is not eating that much." Roxanne's arm shifts under his shoulder; her hip presses into his side for a moment and Cullen bites his lip. "I receive reports on the eating habits of my advisors on a regular basis."

_She is what now_? Cullen's thoughts flicker like a candle before guttering out, but that somehow brings him back to semi-consciousness.

_She knows when and what I eat? Same on Josie? And… __Leliana?_ Cullen would have thought it would be _her_ furnishing the reports.

"Why am I not surprised you keep tabs on your people?" Hawke mutters, and Cullen has to agree. "So—all muscle, then. Corn-fed Fereldan boy. Maker, I should have known. All right, how do we do this up the ladder?"

"I can… do it," Cullen croaks out, because really, there is such a thing as man's dignity, and getting hauled unceremoniously across the battlements by two women clearly pushed his to its limits. "Just… give me a moment."

"Well, welcome to the world of the living, sweetheart," Hawke drawls. "You reckon we can put him in a chair for that moment, Lady Trevelyan? My legs are not quite what they used to be ten years ago."

"Only if you call me by my name, Lady Hawke," Roxanne responds. "And I believe your legs are just fine."

Hawke chuckles.

"Fair enough… Roxanne. I guess maybe we'll get along just fine, huh? Now let's see if… aw, shit, not again…" she says in dismay, because yes, Cullen feels the nausea sweep him under again and his knees buckle as the hammer of pain finally pounds him into unconsciousness.

The next thing he knows, he's on his bed, arms and legs slightly dangling, and someone's messing with his shirt.

"Sod these stupid laces…" That's Hawke's voice. "How's the boots?" she asks casually, and Cullen feels a tug at his feet.

_There__'__s just no way…_

"What…?" he manages to choke out, and risks half-opening his eyes. The world still hurts, but in a somehow more manageable way, he hopes.

"Sorry, sweetheart," Hawke looks up at him with that crooked grin of hers. Something smells horrible, and Hawke is in her shirtsleeves. "I'm afraid you had something in your tummy after all. Stuff needs to go. You upchucked all over yourself." She pauses. "Also, over us. Fun times."

_Maker_._ I threw up all over the Champion and Viscountess of Kirkwall and the Inquisitor._

_Also, if Hawke is messing with my shirt, it is…_

"Inquisitor!" he blurts out, horrified, mortified and embarrassed all at the same time, and tries to sit up.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk." Hawke shakes her head and _pushes_, and Cullen flops back on his pillow, as he realizes he absolutely has no strength. "Recovering lyrium addict will _not_ play the strong stoic hero, all right? Recovering lyrium addict will lie down quietly, concentrate on not hurling all over his helpers, and endure." She wiggles her eyebrows. "If you're lucky, we'll leave the smalls on. Relax, I got this, really," she whispers into his ear, fingers still on his shirt, then louder. "Roxanne, honeychild, would you awfully mind going and see if you can find hot water and a towel or two so we can clean this boy and maybe ourselves up?"

"Yes, ma'am," comes the crisp and, Cullen thinks hazily and _very_ gratefully, somewhat relieved answer from the foot of his bed. He hears footsteps. "I shall see what I can do."

"Good girl." Hawke murmurs as Roxanne descends down the ladder and Cullen relaxes a bit. "She will keep it under wraps, to be sure, so no one knows the mighty Commander is feeling poorly. I told you to relax!" she snaps suddenly, as Cullen, feebly, tries to move. "Be glad this hasn't happened in front of half of Skyhold in broad daylight. Idiot," she adds, but fondly, and her movements with which she quickly and efficiently strips him down to his smalls and tucks him under his blanket are gentle: Cullen, truth to be told, is in too much hurt to do anything but watch her face as she does it.

"There," she says briskly as she tucks the blanket around his waist. "It's nothing I haven't done or seen before, and your dignity is still intact." Cullen nods, remembering her administering to the injured after the final battle of Kirkwall, himself included. "She would have done it too, poor girl, but she was trembling so hard I thought she might actually faint. Odd, for a big bad-ass warrior lady. I figured she wasn't…"

Her eyes open wide for a second, and Cullen wants fervently to be somewhere else.

"Sweet Andraste." Hawke says quietly and sits down right next to him on the bed with a heavy thump. "I'm getting stupid in my old age. _Of course_." She pats his arm. "How bad is it?"

Cullen clears his throat: _this is Hawke_, he reminds himself.

_Hawke._

"On a scale of one to ten?" he asks, lips twisting in a self-mocking smile as he stares at the ceiling. "I would rate myself a fifteen or so."

"Pffft." Hawke makes a face. "Fenris would have caught it right away: he always said about you that when you'd finally fall, you'd fall so hard you didn't even know what hit you. And there you go."

"And there I go." Cullen nods. Now that the worse of the attack is over, and he slowly comes to terms with the fact that Hawke is here and part of his past returned, _this_ is easier to actually admit somehow, too.

At least to _her_.

They stay there in companionable silence a little while, then Hawke chuckles.

"You know," she says, a real smile on her features and suddenly she looks so much younger, like when he saw her the first time in the Gallows Courtyard, "it's nice to know you're human, too, after all. I mean, yes, I know you visited the _Rose_ on a fairly regular basis and took care of business for _health reasons_ and the girls thought you were just the best client ever, but… Maker, stop blushing, sweetheart, I thought you outgrew that."

"Dignity, Hawke," Cullen says feebly. "Remember _that_?"

"Nah, I lost it along with my virginity a _looong_ time ago," Hawke grins and Cullen groans, because he actually _knows_ that story, too, she shared with him over a lot of Starkhaven _uisce_ one long night, years ago. "So: the Trevelyan girl. Walks on water, huh?"

"Walked out of the Fade and from under a mountain that fell on her, actually." Cullen says quietly. "Close enough."

"Yeah, heard the stories. Varric sent a couple letters, too." Hawke sweeps her hair out of her face: still the same unruly mess it used to be back in Kirkwall, and Cullen looks at her fondly. "It's just odd to see her in person and realizing that all of that is actually true. Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor, _and_ thief of your heart: quite a devastating list of accomplishments there." She takes a deep breath. "Now we just need to get you into shape so you can sweep her off her feet and…"

"Hawke," Cullen sighs, head spinning again, and is just about to start explaining how this is absolute madness because Roxanne deserves so much more than a washed-up ex-Templar who pukes all over himself, has debauched dreams featuring her dressed in nothing but gauzy veils, and probably has to resign his position after this is over, when he hears the door open downstairs with a quiet creak.

"I am back." Roxanne's voice is quiet but strong and clear, with just a tiny tremor at the end. Cullen marvels at the fact that he can discern all those little details from it, including the undercurrent of 'I'm enunciating extra clearly just in case there is something going on up there'. "Is he… all right?"

"No more puking if that's what you mean, honeychild," Hawke answers cheerfully. "Also, he's conscious for the moment so yay. Not sure how long though, so bring that water up, will you?"

"Oh." _Is that relief or nervousness_, Cullen wonders for a second. Then Roxanne's face appears at the end of the ladder and his thoughts all go sideways seeing her, strong-limbed and graceful as a cat, climbing up to _his bedroom_.

_Andraste preserve me._

"The water in this is hot," she says briskly to Hawke, lifting a waterskin behind her. "I believe I saw an empty jug here earlier and… ah. Hello, Commander," she breathes as their eyes meet, voice somehow going down a register, cheeks coloring to that absolutely delicate shade of red he can't stop admiring.

"Inquisitor," he whispers. "I… haven't had the chance to thank you yet and… to apologize for…"

"Maker's Breath, you two are _way_ too formal with each other," Hawke bursts out, eyes suspiciously bright and dancing between them, "considering that you," she points at Roxanne, "just helped to drag _his_ sorry puking ass-" finger pointing at him, "-back here, and you-" finger still pointing at Cullen, "_completely_ ruined her doublet." She tilts her head to the side, looking at Roxanne now. "Maybe I should let you do this all by yourself just to get you two more… acquainted, hm?"

And Roxanne shrugs. So help the Maker, she shrugs that fine Orlesian shrug of hers, face completely serene and void of her earlier blush now, unclasps her cloak, lets it fall to the floor and calmly starts to turn up her shirtsleeves.

"Oh, _la_," she says. "It is nothing I have not done while Fredick was in bed for weeks with a couple of broken ribs he acquired during weapons practice a few years back. I believe I can manage." She lifts her eyebrow at Hawke. "I am told you are acquainted with our former weaponmaster…?"

Hawke chuckles, but she sounds tired.

"Nice. I never had the stomach for that fancy Game shit, but you're good." She takes a deep breath and Cullen winces, because he does know that expression that stalks her features right now, very well, from many battles across Kirkwall. "Yes, of course I am 'acquainted' with Fenris. I'm married to him, in fact, so you can calm down and put away any notions of me trying to steal your Commander."

"Oh, is that what it is called in Kirkwall?" Roxanne says delicately, lifting the empty jug from behind his dressing screen in the corner. "Do pardon me, I am not quite familiar with the peculiarities of local dialects." She pauses, voice still completely neutral. "Or is it a Fereldan expression? Your family came from this little village called Lothering, correct?"

"Ladies." Cullen says as crisply as he can into the ensuing silence that is, for all intents and purposes, _lethal_. "If it's all the same to you, I would like to rest now." He clears his throat and hopes fervently that his voice does not falter. "I do appreciate the assistance in getting me back here, but…"

"Oh no, sweetheart." Hawke stands up and slides around the bed in one sinuous movement that, Cullen notices, does not mean she takes her eyes off of Roxanne for even a second. "You're not getting off so easy. After all, someone has to make sure you're not choking on your own vomit before morning comes." She grins her full set of teeth at the younger woman. "Not to mention deal with the inevitable explanations; and who's to do that better than the mighty Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste?" She stretches, hands clasped and arms straining upwards, muscles rippling under her close-fitting leathers. "No, this old woman is going to go and sleep now, before the inevitable War Council meeting crap tomorrow." She whirls around, and she's off the loft and the ladder before Cullen finishes blinking. "A pleasure, truly, Roxanne," she calls out from below, then a creak, a click… and she's gone.

_Well, shit_, Cullen thinks, and he's just about to open his mouth to stammer out something suitably apologetic, when…

"Well, _shit_," he hears as clear as day from the corner. He whips his head around to stare at Roxanne, open-mouthed…

_Did she just… swear?..._

…and the pain stabs him between the eyes with a particularly well-placed ice-pick to punish him for all of his worldly sins, it seems.

Mighty Commander of the Inquisition's forces or no, Cullen Rutherford lets out a very un-Commander-like moan before he passes out this time, his last feeble thought being the ardent wish of not vomiting all over the woman he's learned to cherish above all else in the world.

Again.

Consciousness returns slowly and in tiny increments, and he gradually becomes aware of dappled sunlight on his eyelids, its warmth soothing on his arms and chest. There is blessedly no pain, just weariness and heavy limbs, reminding him of lassitude he felt as a child after a bad chest infection.

He opens one eye first, then the second. It is full daylight, and guilt stabs him straight in the chest, making him sit full upright in his bed. He hasn't slept like this in… in… His mind can't come up with a time, really, not since they came to Skyhold, not back in Haven, maybe not even in the last years in Kirkwall. As he tentatively stretches his limbs and tries to swing his legs off the bed, the realization that last night was not just a really bad nightmare hits him, exacerbated by the fact that he finds himself naked excepting his smalls. Reflexively wrapping his bedsheet around his waist (because he remembers parts of last night, and it is entirely possible that his office door is unlocked, or that there is a guard left downstairs), he attempts to proceed down the ladder, and finds that albeit there's some residual nausea in the pit of his stomach, he feels remarkably better.

"While I am, naturally, relieved to see you up and about," he hears the dry and precise diction he knows oh so well by now, and he freezes, one foot still on the last rung of the ladder, "I cannot in good conscience endorse you walking around so soon after your… episode." A pause. "Also, I just sent for the morning reports and I am not entirely certain Jim, the day runner, would care to see you _en deshabille_."

"Maker's Breath!" Cullen turns very, very carefully and faces his desk. Amidst neat stacks of paper and parchment carefully separated from his piles she sits, expression serene, hair in its usual tight bun, shirt crisp, fresh and starched, doublet neatly hung on the back of the chair. A large tray sits on the floor by the chair, with a silver pot and an empty plate and she cradles a larger than her usual cup in her hand, steam curling in lazy ribbons around her face.

"In other words, Cullen," she continues, in the same tone, "I would very much like you to go back up and rest a little bit more." She pauses. "Please?" she adds, somewhat tentatively, and lifts the cup in her hand. "I would offer some of this, but given how many times _you_… ah, offered the almost nonexistent contents of your stomach last night, I feel it would be imprudent."

"You… stayed?" The words stumble out in a rush as his legs carry him forward almost at their own volition, until he stands right next to her, yet again shaken by the realization just how _young_ she is, especially like this, all curled up in his chair, legs tucked under, stockinged toe peeking out a bit. Her boots are under the desk, next to a small black box that is halfway open: Cullen can see a corner of a rag, a small bottle of polishing oil and buffing brush from where he's standing. Her bootkit looks the exact same as his, and that makes him absurdly happy.

"I… thank you," he offers into the awkward pause, realizing he's rubbing at the old wound at his neck again, and hastily drops his hand to make sure the sheet around his waist still holds.

"Of course I did." Roxanne clears her throat, keeping her eyes very carefully on his face, he notices. "In case you do not remember, I am returning the favor you accorded to me several times now." She shrugs, trying to keep her voice neutral, nonchalant even, but Cullen catches the way the vein on her neck beats just a little bit too fast, and there is the slightest hint of that delightfully rose-colored blush on her cheeks. "It was no bother, really: after I cleaned you up a couple of times, you slept rather quietly, so I even managed to slumber a bit myself." She smiles, and Cullen's fingers twitch as he very much wants to trace that smile with his fingers. "Also, I am very sorry to say this, but you snore."

"I do not," he says reflexively and a bit indignantly, and concentrates on not reddening, because _Maker_, if he does now, he has no shirt on and…

"Do too," Roxanne retorts, almost absentmindedly, and sips from her cup with a deep sigh. The sound of her contentment makes his legs buckle; he hastily pulls up the only other chair in his office and sits down, perhaps a little more forcefully than he wanted to.

"So: all these papers…" he says, hoping that this will not turn any more awkward, watching her sipping her morning drink and feeling oddly guilty, almost as if he's eavesdropping on something intensely private, "…are yours?"

"Most of them weekly reports I am overdue initialing, a summary of diplomatic alliance offerings from Josie, ah, Josephine…" Cullen grins behind his hand at the slip, "and some preliminaries on the Western Approach I need to look over." She waves a hand at the corner of the desk. "I moved a stack from there when your cat came in around dawn through the roof and sat there for a while. He was most likely wondering what I was doing here, but it seems we have a truce for now. "He checked on you when the sun started to hit the bed, or perhaps he just wanted to curl up on a sunbeam. Mother's favorite cat did that all the time." She grimaces." I am afraid he also marked on your pile of laundry before he scratched the door and mortified Elan who brought in some herbs for the burner."

"Burner." Cullen repeats a bit feebly, understanding the faint medicinal scent hanging in the air now: if Skyhold's herbalist and the day runner were here, that means…

"Oh, she was kind enough to take the clothes to the laundresses," Roxanne hastens to add; not that this makes Cullen feel any better. "The herbs helped with the smell and I used up the bunch I brought with me when I made your second wash." And that explains why his skin smells like lavender and elfroot. Then the image of Roxanne sitting on his bed with a steaming bowl of scented water, smoothing a washrug over his skin flashes into his mind, and sends an entirely inappropriate amount of heat and blood southward. He ducks his head and takes a deep breath, remembering some useful Templar breathing techniques.

She finally notices his almost-panicked expression and tilts her head.

"Are you… feeling all right?" she asks, anxiously. "I do think you really ought to lie down. Also, before I forget: you have a hole in your roof and Lieutenant Barris says he can take the practice sessions today since he's here for the week anyway for resupply."

"Perhaps… if I take this slowly and ask questions?" Cullen offers; this does make his head spin, although it's nothing like last night, not even close.

"I am sorry," Roxanne says quickly and bites her lip. "I am babbling; I assure you, I am not…"

"Roxanne." He watches her swallow and subside, and decides to hedge his bets now on a move he's never played before: he leans forward and takes her hand in his. "It's all right: I am not exactly the paragon of flowery speech or coherent thinking right now myself." The feel of her fingers against his sends a thousand little pinpricks through his skin; this is the first time that he does not wear gloves when they touch. The callouses on her hand match his own almost exactly from years of hard swordwork, and that, oddly enough, gives him the strength to continue. "Since you already know I stopped taking lyrium, I won't bore you with long explanations. I'm still able to use some of the Templar powers; they fade slower than the lyrium empties from my body. But it has been… oh, almost a year now, I think." He pauses, gathering his thoughts into some sort of coherency, because Maker, she deserves to hear this from his lips. "When I left Kirkwall, with Cassandra. After I resigned, I couldn't… I wouldn't be bound to the Order, or that life any longer. Whatever the suffering, I accept it." He huffs. "Or so I thought. Puking my guts out all over you and Hawke wasn't quite part of the plan."

Roxanne's mouth twitches into a small smile and something in the pit of Cullen's stomach eases.

"That is quite understandable." She nods, as if she just decided something and her fingers tighten on his even more. "Cullen, you were… rather poorly last night. I… happen to be somewhat familiar with how Templars are trained and with the effects of lyrium exposure." She must have noticed Cullen's slightly doubting expression because she grimaces and says, a bit impatiently. "Another long story, _Commander_, about my family connections and days in Val Royeaux that one of these days I would be more than happy to share with you perhaps over a glass of wine. For now, it is of no importance. What is, though, is I know that this _could kill you_."

"Well, it hasn't yet." He lifts his other hand, placating. "_Not_ that I'm trying to deny the severity of what's happening to me. Or to make light of what this might mean for the Inquisition. As you probably know, I have talked about this to Cassandra and I've asked her to watch me. If my ability to lead is compromised, I will be relieved of duty."

_I have to keep this as professional as possible. Despite the fact that I__'__m sitting here dressed in a sheet, holding hands with her, and the way she__'__s curled up on my chair makes me want just to reach out, pull her to my lap and_…

"You're in pain," Roxanne states that, not asks, but after last night, that much should be obvious to her.

"I can endure it," he answers, simply, because honestly, right now, sitting here, looking at her and holding her hand, he could pretty much take on an entire platoon of Red Templars. Even though he knows this is just a momentary thing, and she's probably more concerned about the stability of the Inquisition's military arm than him in person. She is a bann's daughter, half-Orlesian, skilled in the Game and trained as a chevalier. Maker, what is he _thinking_, hoping that…

"Understood." She nods firmly, her next words oddly formal, and she makes a little bow while sitting. "And I respect your decision." She is slipping back into the cadences and rituals of her training, her old world: he can feel it. Cullen sighs, a bit wistfully, because every good thing must end sooner or later and this, this just sitting here and watching her and talking like they were… equals feels very much _right_.

"You… have to know just how grateful I am for your help last night." He knows he cannot match her for eloquence, his education and upbringing nowhere near as high as hers, but experience needs to count for something. "The Inquisition's army must _always_ take priority. Should anything happen… I will defer to Cassandra's judgment." This probably would sound much better with him fully dressed, and Cullen dearly wishes for his armor right now. "And now I must insist that you return to your quarters before…"

_Before someone draws inappropriate conclusions about you spending the night in my quarters. Before someone, such as Jim, the day runner comes in and finds me in a bedsheet holding the Inquisitor__'__s hand. Before I do something that I shouldn't_…

"Cullen, you are _sick_." Roxanne does not withdraw her hand. "No one needs to know _what kind_ of sick, but you are not well." The tiny smile that appears on her face would be, on anyone else, called slightly mischievous, but Cullen knows Roxanne Trevelyan does not do mischievous. Ever.

_Or does she_? He realizes that he'd really, really like to find it out.

"I let Leliana and Josephine know that you required some rest and as I happened to come upon you while indisposed, I decided to make sure you recovered as smoothly as possible, and that includes assisting with the paperwork that normally takes over half of your day. They did and do take care of the rest of the details." She lifts an eyebrow and assumes her best Lady Trevelyan face. "I _am_ the Inquisitor, after all. I have a certain… influence over Skyhold, I believe, besides running around in charming locales pacifying the countryside with small-unit surgical strikes." Her fingers tighten around Cullen's and he's suddenly, absurdly, and illogically hopeful. "Now you go ahead and climb back to bed and rest for the remainder of today." She lifts a finger upwards, pointing at the loft. "Rest assured, that hole on your roof will be patched, and as soon as possible. I do understand that you did not wish to dedicate resources to your private quarters when so much of Skyhold proper remains under restoration still, but the winter snow will be here soon and you do not need to catch a cold on top of what already ails you."

"I have a perfectly good standard-issue tarp under the hole to catch precipitation," Cullen grumbles, but he feels that this, much like the question of returning to bed, is a losing battle.

"Half of your bed was soaked after last night." Roxanne gives no quarter, and Cullen finds that he does not want her to. "Half of it, Cullen. In fact, I would not be surprised if Leliana already started the rumors that your ascetic habits and penchant for caring for others before tending to your own needs caused your illness." Her expression is fierce, eyes bright, and she is still gripping his hand; Cullen has no intention of asking her to let go any time soon, even though she is practically scolding him. "You _will_ get better. You _will_ beat this addiction; and you _will_ remain Commander. My Commander." She leans forward and he can feel her breath on his face as she articulates: "Am I understood?"

He could give a dozen different answers. He could start explaining, offering reasons, clarifying, denying or delaying… but she does not deserve that.

What she deserves, his lady of Fade-green and lyrium blue, his Herald of Pride and Joy, absolute ruler of his life, is the truth.

So he lifts her hand to his lips, breathes a feather-light kiss on her knuckles, then turns their still entwined hands, opens his fingers and whispers into her palm with another kiss what he can offer for now.

"As you wish."


	7. Shadow In the Sun

**Shadow in the Sun**

_No means I find to rid him from my breast,_  
_Till by the end of things it be suppressed._

_I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned,_  
_Since from myself another self I turned._

_-Monsieur's Departure, Qntal-_

_At night I find it hard  
To rest my head and fall asleep  
Cos death is telling me  
That I, I could leave here  
Oh but long ago I made a pact  
I intend to keep it  
As long as I am breathing  
I'll keep on trying_

_-Katie Gray, From Far Away-_

_**A/N: By popular demand, the journals of Roxanne Trevelyan were raided once again.**_

_**Quote notes: **_

_**1\. 'The beginning of wisdom is the most sincere desire for instruction'—from the Bible, Wisdom 6:17 (Revised Standard Edition Catholic Version).**_

_**2\. 'Those who oppose thee shall know the wrath of heaven' -Chant of Light, Andraste 7:19**_

_From the private journals of Roxanne Trevelyan_

Crestwood is just as damp as I remember it from months back. It is not merely my subjective observation, but a joint agreement with the members of my inner circle with whom I am currently traveling. Solas is definitely quieter than usual, and Blackwall retreats into his woodcarving every evening. If Sera was not here to draw them out (albeit I must admit, filling Solas' bedroll with lizards may have been _just_ a bit too much), they probably would just grunt one-syllable responses to everything and eat alone in their tents. I know I am also not the most social person in the world (and that is gently and charitably put), yet those two officially put me to shame. I even apologized to Sera one particularly chilly evening.

"Crap, now what did I do?" was her response.

"What do you mean?" I asked, slightly baffled. "I was the one who…"

"Yeah, Quizzy (this is, apparently, her slightly irreverent nickname for me), I know the score," she said, lounging by the fireside of our camp just off Three Trout Farms (_marginal note_: aptly named, stinks of fish). "You apologize, it means I did wrong. Your mind is all crooked."

"Why, thank you," I must confess I found talking to Sera wretchedly difficult at first, albeit our relationship gradually improved. The gap between the two of us was almost insurmountable in the beginning, and I would be lying if I said we implicitly trusted each other. Not to mention I had serious trouble deciphering her accent for a while. "I take that as a compliment and suppose that is why you tipped me off about that little operation in Verchiel, for which we dispatched our troops not too long ago?"

"Phhft." I will never in my life will be able to reproduce any of the sounds Sera makes when she is out of words. I am told by Varric that this one is called a 'raspberry', so I can recognize there are differences between them, but _Maker_! "They're messing with refugees, those nobles. I knew you wouldn't stand for that shite." She grinned. "Also, because your mind's crooked. Right."

"See? You did not do anything wrong." I paused. "Yet."

"Want me to?" She considered, and from the way her eyes lit up I knew I was in trouble. "Oooh, I know! How 'bout this one: miss him yet?"

"Excuse me?" I lifted an eyebrow with what I believed was perfect dignity and composure.

"Don't give me that shite," she pronounced and elbowed me. "Your Cullen-Wullen." She tilted her head sideways, considering. "Cully-Wully?"

"Sera." I must confess that my hand moved to the pommel of my sword at that moment, which is probably exactly what she was looking for. "I do not recall you and I have ever been in terms that would justify…"

"Ha!" She pointed with a cackle. "Hand on sword, you miss him. Parts, anyway. Hey, went all red too." She reached out a hand towards Blackwall, who was busy whittling away at a piece of wood (presumably another toy griffon, he really liked to give those out to children in the villages we passed through) and wiggled her fingers. "You owe me five."

"It's perfectly possible she just objects to you calling the Commander-General of the Inquisition's armies 'Cully-wully', Sera," Blackwall said, not even pausing. "I don't owe you shit."

"You're just messin' with my head." Sera looked at me. "We all know. Lots of men under him. Needs a woman over him." She giggled. "Because positions. So: yes?"

"Ser Warden?" I stood up slowly, looking at Blackwall. "Would you mind doing your Inquisitor a favor and explain to this young lady here that given that I am absolutely not interested in the details of my inner circle's private life and thus will not, under any circumstances, bring up the way she eyes Chief Scout Harding's chest every single time they meet, it is highly disrespectful towards the highest-ranking military member of our organization to imply that…"

"Woof." Sera was still grinning. "So rattled she needs reinforcements. And yeah, Lace's tits are great. But not the point. Point is, there are _wagers_ on the two of you, Quizzy. Pool's pretty big."

I sat back down; despite everything I felt myself blush as I considered what she just said. That a large enough number of Skyhold's denizens spend their spare time thinking about…

_Maker_. This is my private journal and I am yet strangely reticent to write, even here, about… well, _private_ matters. Matters I largely do not even dare to hope, consider, dream, cherish? I could practically pen entire treatises about how I turn these thoughts around over and over again in my head, and when confronted with how others see this strange _minuet_ that Cullen and I are dancing, I freeze and refuse to face reality. Some brave _chevalier_, Inquisitor and Herald I make. There are Rifts opening all around us, demons threaten the innocent, Orlais is torn apart by civil war, Grey Wardens are disappearing, Venatori stalk the western lands in large numbers, an ancient darkspawn wishes to usurp the Maker's throne (or so he says in his immeasurable hubris), and here I am, dutifully recording how I found out that people are betting on me and Cullen doing… what? That same metaphor about a courtly dance comes to mind yet again, and I cannot even say how inept I am with those.

I deflected the allegations that I might even consider missing him in a _different_ way than missing the advice of my military commander or even the voice of a friend, yes—but that does not make it any less true, and it is time that I acknowledge that. The way I dodge even the notion of staring into the dying embers of the fire at night because the almost-burned-out wood has the color of his fur cloak. The way my hand tingles sometimes not because of the mark that my left bears, but because my right remembers that kiss he placed in my palm. The way I sleep so much better with lavender and elfroot crushed under my pillow these days not because the scent chases away mosquitoes and the stench of the undead, but because it reminds me of his skin that night when I tended to him after his withdrawal episode. The way I am always the first to grab the courier letters or the ravens' messages arriving to our camps, looking for his handwriting. And the way I carefully fold away the second, smaller missive tucked into the first one when I finally find the one from him, and withdraw to my tent like some thief squirreling away their treasures to take it out and fondle it when no one sees…

"_Yet again," _I remember the first of such letters said, "_I must assure you that my health remains constant. While somewhat weaker than I was in my prime (and there goes my wounded pride with admitting that), it appears I can still beat unruly recruits into submission sufficiently enough that you'll probably hear about it when you come back (__to which I am looking forward__) (__and may I hope that you__) hopefully in good health. _

_I also have to tell you I appreciated your thoughtfulness of leaving Cassandra here to assist in smaller matters requiring the touch of a more military-oriented mind. As that clearly was your doing (yes, I asked and she confessed), I can't help but suspect that Rylen and Lynette volunteering to take over most preliminary correspondence work wasn't exactly their own idea either. I should clearly resent this insertion of your executive powers into my sphere of authority, Inquisitor, except that with these modifications to my schedule I sleep about two hours longer these days. And I still manage my morning running practice. See? I'm listening to good advice; old age probably is catching up on me."_

For the sake of posterity I also shall copy here a part of Cassandra's letter to me, arriving a day later via raven.

"_Inquisitor, for the love of the Maker, convey it to Cullen somehow that he doesn't need to leave permanent scars and bruises on recruits to make a point about just how superior he is. We know. I took to sparring with him every day in the morning now. Iron Bull swears he will let Lieutenant Aclassi conduct the patrols, stop playing chess with Dorian and 'take up the slack soon' in assisting me in this duty. My joints would certainly thank him, otherwise I believe I'll head up a scouting party to the Western Approach as soon as possible to recover somewhat. Or join Vivienne in redecorating the Great Hall with extreme prejudice. Don't tell Blackwall please but I don't think I'll ever go hard on him during sparring again. _

_As to Cullen's ability to lead the troops, since you inquired: he is absolutely qualified. I'm not sure what exactly it is that you managed to beat into his head when you took care of him that night, but he's doing better. As it's probably clear from what I just said."_

Some might call me unnecessarily fussy, but I have good reason to worry. Many good reasons, truthfully said, but one of those specifically stems from my knowledge about Templars. The Trevelyans gave daughters and sons to the service of the Chantry for long generations, so our family knows more than the average person on Thedas about what Templars endure. In fact, one of my father's younger brothers was dedicated as a Templar—my uncle Erec. He served at the Ostwick Circle, and visited us occasionally. I remember, in particular, his last one. That was when I was asked to accompany him and some of the Ostwick mages to the Conclave; and the main reason I will never forget that conversation was when he revealed _why_ he was asking me.

"_It has started, Roxanne," Uncle Erec's eyes bore into mine, blood-rimmed and full of pain. His grip on my arm was still strong; too strong, perhaps. "Don't look at me like that, you were considered for service as a youngster before your father decided he would rather name you his heir and send you to the Academy instead. I know you read enough of the old family diaries to understand what I mean. I need your eyes and ears with me, because…" He shook his head ruefully and ruffled my hair just like when I was six. "You truly would have made a worthy candidate…but this is better. I wouldn't wish this on you, child. I…" I watched, dismayed, as his eyes glazed over the third time that day, and his speech faltered. I supported his weight as he staggered, dazed, then looked at me, eyes just a little but more bloodshot then before and repeated the exact words than before. "It has started, Roxanne."_

He was losing his mind. Slowly it creeps up on them, the disorientation, the dementia, the hallucinations, after decades of ingesting lyrium, slowly it eats their mind, their memories, their sanity—the price they pay for defending our world from possession, abominations and demon invasions. Once started, no one ever gave up lyrium willingly in living memory that the Chantry knows of. Casssandra looked, I looked—nothing.

Except Cullen. Maker help him, he was on uncharted waters, and at the helm of the Inquisition's army. I owed to not only to him, but to everyone who swore an oath to our banner to help him with all I had to succeed.

"Wagers, huh?" The last member of our expedition sat down next to me after Sera pranced away to pester Solas again. She had a bowl of stew from our dinner in her hand—her third one. "Don't you worry; just say the word and I punch anyone who disrespects you."

"Do they really…?" I trailed off, staring into the fire. "Have wagers, I mean? You had the luxury of walking around in Skyhold relatively unhindered by status or fear of instant recognition; we did not exactly shout from the rooftops who you were."

"Oh, honeychild, soldiers wager on just about anything if they have spare time and are paid well. You should've heard the things that were bet on in Kirkwall: and your Inquisition forces are much better paid than either the city guard or the Templars there, trust me." Marian Hawke _slurped_ her stew while he talked and I could not help but shudder at the sound. "Ah, this is good. Say what you will, elves apparently can make a decent stew from just about anything edible. I remember this one time when Merrill…" She winked. "Apologies for changing the subject, but I'm having an inkling of a feeling you don't particularly care discussing your love life."

Hawke and I did not exactly behave like best friends ever since that night when I, however willingly, was stuck with tending to my ailing Commander (I can't believe how easy it is now to call him mine and yet, here it is), but for the duration of this journey and her being a strategic ally of the Inquisition, I made the effort. _This_, however, definitely went beyond the bounds of whatever uneasy truce we reached during our travels; not to mention I never did well with condescension, perceived or real.

"You are absolutely right." I nodded, taking care that my eyes smiles just as well as my lips did. It was beaten into me early enough at the Academy—literally. "I do not much care about discussing the private aspects of my life; in particular the ones that might cast aspersions upon the good name of…"

"Oh for Andraste's sake, it's just you and me here, Roxanne." Hawke sighed (like everyone else, I also apparently developed the mysterious inability to call her anything else but by her family name). "Can you cut the formal crap at least when it's just ourselves?" She leaned forward intently. "Listen, girl, Fenris said you were brilliant, lovely and he had high hopes that you'd achieve much in your life based on those two years he has spent teaching you. I'd hate to tell him they've turned you into this prissy, dried-up pedantic spinster at that Val Royeaux academy of yours." She sighed. "I really want to get this off my chest, and as this is our first opportunity to speak without interruptions since we've left Skyhold, I'd kindly thank you for not interrupting. Look, I remember when I was your age…Carver and I joined the army, thought we can do just about anything, the world is our cuttlefish, as they say in Kirkwall. Especially me…I was a right brat in my young years." She snorted. "Maker, I carried on with a Templar in Lothering for years."

She must have seen the incredulity in my eyes.

"An _affair_, yes, I know fancy words too. I bet that shocks the socks right off you, huh? Ser Bryant, his name was." Her face softened as she said the name, voice wistful. "You know, I never really learned what happened to him after Lothering was overran by the darkspawn, but he wouldn't have been the only one of his Order to have that happen to, Ferelden was utter chaos that year. The Blight came, and we ran, and I had to take care of the family when I was only a few years older than you are now. Ten years in Kirkwall, and I could have turned into a raving lunatic any time some of that weird shit that went down there happened…Just ask Varric, or read his book, I swear anything in there is as true as the Chant. Ten years, girl. Ten sodding years. The only way to get through the lot you and I were given is to have friends you can trust absolutely and without reservation. Just allies, advisors, buddies, pals, whatnot _doesn't count_. Whether it's your back to the wall and the green shit is boiling out of the Fade and there are demons, blood mages and screaming civilians everywhere, or it's a bad headache day spent with fancily dressed courtiers and bureaucrats who pass canapés and drink tea with exquisite care of their pinkies while trying to backstab you—it's your friends who keep you from bleeding out."

She stood up, half her face in shadow, half made sharp by the firelight, cheekbones jutting out.

"I'm _not_ saying you're turning into a second Meredith Stannard, understand, but you lead the Inquisition, and that's power aplenty for a smaller soul to get soured and rotten, let alone for an absolutely brilliant young woman who finds it real hard to bend. Don't make me regret to throw in with you. Not to mention don't make Cullen regret that his stomach is in knots and he stammers like a lovestruck boy every time he sees you. And don't ever think about emulating me, either, because that would be mighty stupid of you. I mean, look at me: kicked out of my own city by a bunch of red statues after trying to save everyone, including them, from blood magic. Not so shiny." She rested her hand on my shoulder, squeezing a bit before turning away. "Steel, not iron wins the day. Any smith will tell you that tempered and easy to bend steel is what the best swords are made of; they fold it hundreds of times. Think on it: I'm too tired to make a better analogy."

I tried, for weeks, for months, to forget what that demon showed me in the Fade at Therinfal Redoubt. I woke up in cold sweat, with hot shakes, heart hammering and chest heaving with dry sobs a long way after we have returned from there. I planted enough elfroot and spindlewed in the Haven chantry gardens to choke an army with it, just to get those scenes out of my mind. I know what the Envy demon wanted to achieve with those images, and I resisted, and I thought it would be easy to do…

The nightmare dreams, however, returned after Leliana handed me the sword of the Inquisitor on the Skyhold battlements in front of everyone, and with it came the responsibility over what, for all intents and purposes, is a small nation, growing day by day. "_Into darkness, unafraid_" is our motto, and people come to Skyhold or show up at one of our camps because they believe in the cause, the goal to bring the wars to an end, to seal all the Rifts and make Thedas a safe place to live once again.

It is also an undisputable fact that, like it or not, this small nation elected me as their leader. What to do with that responsibility, what to do with that power, and how to do it: much ink was spilled over this ever since the Ancient Age. But no amount of reading, no amount of deliberating circumstances, deeds and possible actions past and future, brought such sharp focus on the question of 'which road to take' for me, then what Hawke said tonight. I sit here, my candle slowly burning to a stub, listening to Sera snoring on the other pallet, and know that Hawke spoke in earnest, that she has been where I am now and that, perhaps, she is the only one from all of those surrounding me who understands, truly, what I am facing.

_The beginning of wisdom is the most sincere desire for instruction_. May Andraste give me strength to walk the path I have been given so that the dungeons I have seen in my nightmare in the Fade never materialize in reality. Not while I live, and not after either.

I do not think I shall sleep a lot tonight.

…

I will never bear great love to this region of Ferelden.

Crestwood. It is damp and harshly cold, and stinks of fish much more than The Fallow Mire of the Sword Coast ever can. It has sad memories of refugees fleeing the Blight, encountering perceived kindness and being finally betrayed and killed by the very man they believed would save them.

I have notified my advisors via raven that the mayor of Crestwood (_marginal_ _note_: not recording his name on purpose: let at least his family be spared the shame) is now on the Inquisition's most wanted list. Learning about his deeds, the exact way he decided to just…flood those caves and let everyone die, including his own people who were there tending the sick left a sour taste in my mouth. Even more so considering what was on my mind so much these days: the way the Inquisition is shaping up to be. The way it may turn out. The way I may turn out.

I say now that I never would have made that same decision; but is that true? Had I been in the full possession of the facts, had the circumstances been just a bit different…? Cullen was right about command decisions when we talked about him sending me out there in Haven: you have to live with their consequences for the rest of your life. The Mayor of Crestwood, I believe, has made the wrong decision, based on what we know now. He pays the price for that. I, however, cannot help but consider the possibility of what I saw in the Fade that day at Therinfal.

What _is_ the Inquisition? What does it stand for? What do I stand for? Am I what others believe me to be: the Herald of Andraste, Lady of the Hand, the one sent to redeem this world and make it anew as some proclaim me to be? Am I a Free Marcher, half-Orlesian chevalier, eager to prove herself in the Great Game, show her mettle to all who doubted her abilities as a leader, soldier, noble? Am I a woman barely twenty-two, slowly realizing her feelings towards a man older and more experienced in all that matters and not knowing how to cope with all that it entails? Am I to turn away from all of that or embrace all of it? Acceptance, denial or something else? Will I see the Inquisition become what I was shown in Envy's nightmare, through my own actions, or will I hesitate, ponder and think infinitely, and through my own inaction someone else realizes the same nightmare?

What if…

In the middle of all those thoughts, in the middle of writing that missive and hating every word of it, though, Hawke walked up to me, gave me a one-armed hug, swift and hard, as I sat there, and said 'you'll be all right, honeychild'.

"I'm sure your spies will find that rat bastard and then you can do your special Inquisition justice on him with extreme prejudice," she added, mouth compressed into a thin line. "Shit thinking like that is what made First Enhanter Orsino turn into a sodding blood-monster, too."

"I will be all right once we are away from this place, Hawke." I said, putting my quill down. "Truly." She petted my hand and I did not find it patronizing anymore; which just goes to show how one can make great strides in friendship when an adequate amount of rain and stale, rank cave-water is involved. "I do hope to be home by Satinalia, even if I have to fly."

"Griffons are all extinct, I'm afraid," Blackwall put in from the other side of the fireplace. We were sitting in Caer Bronach's newly rebuilt great hall, enjoying some warmth and dryness after spending so long outside. "Now if you want to take some of those fine Orlesian coursers we found left here by the bandits…"

"I doubt Charger and her spies could find good use for them, so that is actually a good idea." I grimaced, remembering. "After enough damp caves painted with symbols of defunct thieving guilds and arcane societies, I am afraid a Satinalia with hot mulled cider and gift-giving sounds way more appetizing. I do beg your pardon, Warden Stroud," I added, nodding politely towards Hawke's Warden friend, sitting unobtrusively in a corner, busy with checking the edge of his blade.

Ser Jean-Marc Stroud. The way he bowed to me upon our meeting made it immediately evident that he was an ex-Academy trainee, like me. I could see from his eyes that he recognized the plume on my helmet as well; what he thought of it he managed to hide more successfully. I gathered from Hawke that his family was a casualty in the Great Game and his departure from the Academy and joining the Wardens was somehow connected to that. I filed that information away to be discussed later, perhaps back at Skyhold during debrief on this mission; of more immediate concern were the implications of all what he shared with me regarding his discoveries.

"No offense taken, Inquisitor," he assured me now. "I don't particularly cherish the memory of that cave either, although it was somewhat better than other accommodations I dealt with in the past decade."

"I do hope you will find Skyhold agreeable." I was still trying to figure him out; his mannerisms clearly spoke of his education and noble origins, but I knew from Blackwell's example that no matter what he was before, now he was, first and foremost, a Warden, with no past allegiances remaining. "My advisors will appreciate the news you bring."

"Given that there is a price on my head by my own Order, I equally appreciate what for all intents and purposes is the Inquisition providing asylum." Stroud was smiling under his bushy moustache as he said that, but I caught the sharp glance that passed between him and Blackwall. "If your Inquisition hears my brothers' plight and decides to act upon my news to save the Grey Wardens of Orlais, I fulfilled my oath."

"Whoa, there." Sera butted in, holding a hand up. "Stop with the noble shite, makes me head hurt." She pointed at Stroud. "You want something, we want something. Trade, right? What's with the dancing? What's with the poncy noble talk?"

"Sera, sometimes people actually are true to their heritage." Solas put in, gently but firmly from where he was sitting, cross-legged, eyes halfway closed and clearly in some kind of a meditation. "Have you ever considered that?"

"Phffft." There went another of Sera's impossible-to-reproduce vocalizations. "You mean now I need to have the headache comin' from more than one direction? Piss."

"Oh, come now." I watched Solas unfurl himself gracefully from the pillow he was sitting on and take Sera by the arm. "Let me save you from that headache. Tell me about the end goals of your organization; it always baffled me a bit that you did not seem to have those fully formulated. In the meantime, I can brew you something that…" The rest was mostly lost as the two of them exited the room; for a bony elf mage, Solas had surprising strength in him, and I did not see Sera struggle. She probably was too stunned to do anything.

It was painfully obvious why Solas was doing that, and indeed, about three heartbeats later Blackwall made an apologetic smile, muttered something about his whetstone being all 'crappy and needing another one', and exited the room as well.

"Would you look at that." Hawke said, airily. "Almost as if they all wanted us alone so we can talk high and mighty Inquisition stuff." She winked at Stroud. "You do poncy noble so well, too. It set my heart all aflutter."

"Aflutter my ass, Hawke." Stroud offered, in sharp contrast of his previous manners. He leaned back in his chair with a deep sigh. "You just want to butter me up so I don't say bad things about you to your sister."

"Nah, Aveline is already doing that." Hawke threw a glance at me and shrugged, somewhat apologetically. "Sorry, Inquisitor—old war buddies do this kind of talk, and sometimes I just plain forget myself. Stroud here took care of my little sister Bethany when she became a Grey Warden and when he had to separate from her lately because of…well, reasons, our mutual friend Aveline Vallen made sure Beth got out of Orlais." She shook her head. "Call me sentimental, but I wouldn't have cared for Bethany hearing Corypheus' false call."

"Neither would have I." Stroud said quietly. "Once we're finished with this business and the threat of the false call is ended, I'll find her." He flashed a grin. "And then I'll tell her all about your comments about me being poncy. She'll just love that."

"Nah, I'm reasonably sure she already knows you're the least poncy ex-chevalier in existence." Hawke grinned back, and I could not help but smile watching them. In that moment I again understood what she meant earlier telling me about the importance of having friends, and resolved to do better than I've done so far. This wasn't the Academy, where I had to keep myself apart from caution of being destroyed by those more adept at playing the Great Game or by those resenting my abilities and progress surpassing other students of higher birth.

The Inquisition existed precisely as a counter to those bickering nobles, feuding mages and Templars, agents of Corypheus or Tevinter. If I was to be its true leader, did I have the right to keep myself apart the way I've done so far, except in very special circumstances? The more I watched how Hawke acted around people, whether she knew them from a long time ago or they just met, the more I understood that the part of me that held itself apart from everyone had to give way unless I wished to be an unreachable, untouchable icon-Inquisitor, set apart like a figurehead, secure in her power but not having any connection to the people she led…and that way led straight to the nightmare I saw in the Fade.

"Pardon us, Inquisitor," Hawke raised me from my brooding, touching my shoulder. "Stroud has asked me to accompany him to the chapel for a vigil—he wishes to pray for his brothers who fell for the false call. You should probably head to bed if we want an early start back to Skyhold tomorrow."

I stood up, looking at them; Hawke with her raven-black hair in its usual disarray, worn red scarf tied around her neck, still wearing her sweat-stained gambeson and greatsword with casual ease, and Stroud with his somber expression, carefully combed greying hair and moustache, Warden uniform painstakingly mended where it tore at his shoulder seam… and I suddenly knew what to do. How to start my journey back from those cliffs of isolation I placed myself all those years ago, how to continue those fumbling steps I already started to take in some ways, but which were not made with any conscious effort until Hawke brought it into painful focus and Stroud's recounting of his isolated, aloof brotherhood's plea made me understand even better the dangers not only me, but the entire Inquisition faced.

We cannot become like the Chantry we broke from, and we cannot go down the road the Grey Wardens did. It is my firm belief that the only way to continue is exactly the way something made me rearrange those flags in Therinfal's Redoubt, during that ancient ritual.

People first.

"Would you mind if I accompanied you?" I made a little bow towards the Warden. "A vigil for your brothers and sisters as they face the greatest challenge and temptation would be a most fitting way to offer my first aid to you and them as Inquisitor."

Stroud stared at me for a long second.

"The Herald of Andraste's intercession would be…" he returned my bow, deeper than ever before, "most welcome, my lady." He swallowed, hard. "Very much. Thank you."

"_That's_ what I'm talking about," Hawke whispered to me fiercely, pressing my hand hard as we walked towards the chapel. "_Now_ I understand why that stubborn, lovely dolt is so head over heels for you."

That was an entirely inappropriate remark to make before spending the night in prayers, but reflecting back upon it now as I write this journal entry, I must admit that it kept me rather comfortably warm kneeling on the stones of the small chapel of Caer Bronach.

_Those who oppose thee  
Shall know the wrath of heaven.  
Field and forest shall burn,  
The seas shall rise and devour them,  
The wind shall tear their nations  
From the face of the earth,  
Lightning shall rain down from the sky,  
They shall cry out to their false gods,  
And find silence._

I have to keep trying.


	8. Cherished Dreams

**Cherished Dreams**

_Keep my distance I tried_  
_No use_  
_But no matter the miles_  
_I'm back to you_

_I could try to forget what you do when I let you get_  
_Through to me but then you do it over again_  
_I could rage like a fire and you'd bring rain I desire_  
_'Til you get to me on my morningside_  
_-Sarah Bareilles, Morningside—_

_There's a part of me you'll never know_  
_The only thing I'll never show_

_Hopelessly I'll love you endlessly_  
_Hopelessly I'll give you everything_  
_But I won't give you up_  
_I won't let you down_  
_And I won't leave you falling_  
_If the moment ever comes_  
_-Muse, Endlessly—_

_**A/N: Hey, look, more obscure historical references in this one. I really should make it less obvious that I was trained as a medievalist in a past life. **_

_**1\. The wrestling moves that are demonstrated in this chapter are almost verbatim quotes from the early 15**__**th**__** century Italian martial arts master Fiore dei Liberi's book, Flos Duellatorum or Flower of Battle.**_

_**2\. The book that Cullen randomly grabs from Roxanne's bookshelf is based on an 11**__**th**__** century Byzantine military treatise, titled by its modern editors the Strategikon of Kekaumenos, not to be confused with its earlier, more famous cousin, the Strategikon of Maurice.**_

_**3\. The rondeau at the end is from the 14**__**th**__** century French composer, Guillaume de Machaut, canon of Reims and secretary to John of Luxemburg. I give both the original, and its somewhat clunky English translation for proper enjoyment.**_

He really didn't plan to be busy in the training yard when Roxanne finally made it back to Skyhold. Honestly. He also didn't plan on demonstrating arm lock techniques on a larger opponent that just happened to be The Iron Bull. And he absolutely didn't plan on both of them being naked from the waist up—but when one approaches training thoroughly and wants to get it into the more advanced soldiers' head exactly where the vulnerable muscle groups are…

Well.

"And with this move I will either force him to the ground or else his left arm will be dislocated," he announces to the people around him and cocks an eyebrow at The Bull. "Provided he's my enemy, which he's now supposed to be."

"Oh. Right." Iron Bull manages to look sheepish, and the trainees chuckle. "Sorry, I was just lost there for that bit where you force me to the ground."

"Hey!" Of course Dorian Pavus is sitting right there on the fence that separates the grounds from the courtyard proper, and his wave is _very_ enthusiastic. "Can I volunteer for that part, Commander?"

There is more laughter and Cullen can't help but grin. The Tevene mage is truly an insufferable tease, but he's doing it equally to both sexes, and Cullen really can't fault him for trying to bring some levity into the otherwise pretty grim days of the Inquisition. So despite his best convictions, and because he really is starting to feel at home with these people at last, he turns and slowly appraises Dorian.

"I don't quite think you could keep up, _mage_," he says, pitching his voice just a bit lower than usual, "but take a number and we'll see."

There are the predictable hoots, whistles and laughter: this is army training ground, after all, and Cullen remembers that his trainee days at Kinloch Hold were not that much different. He shakes his head, marveling at how time changes things. Even a year ago it would have been impossible to the man he was _then_ to act like this, but this is the Inquisition and they are on uncharted waters.

Besides, morale in the troops can always use improvement; especially in this group. They are all veterans of Haven, seen things that were straight out of nightmares and legends, _survived_ them, and are well on their way to become leaders of those flocking under their banners now.

"Therefore, if I may have your attention, ladies and gentlemen, for the _actual_ training part of this morning, Advanced Unarmed Techniques…" he continues, turning back towards his opponent. "We shall learn that from all the guards we have practiced this far and which I hope everyone managed to get through their sodding thick skulls, we can arrive at this play. Observe." He crooks a finger at The Bull. "Try to hit me, Captain, if you would."

"_Try_, Commander?" The Qunari tilts his head to the side. "What is this word of which you speak?"

More chuckles. Cullen sighs.

"Just come at me, you giant horned man-beast."

"I thought you'd never ask." Bull chortles, and starts to move.

"And from this position," Cullen says, his left hand coming up, lightning fast, "proceed as follows." He's using his best military voice, projecting clearly to all corners of the grounds while demonstrating the technique. "Jam his right inside elbow with your left hand, and bring your right hand up behind and against his left elbow." His voice is underscored by The Iron Bull's surprised grunt as his frontal assault is arrested and his great body is turned, almost by magic. "Now you quickly make the second play, that is to say, having gripped him like this, turn your body to the left," another grunt, "and as a result he either goes to the ground or his arm will be dislocated." There is a thud.

"Well, I'll be snookered." That's Mathis, one of the soldiers in the training yard he has high hopes for. He cocks his head to one side, contemplatively viewing the Qunari sprawled on the ground. "That worked."

"It _always_ works." Cullen extends a hand towards The Iron Bull, and he lumbers on his feet, grinning and shaking his head.

"That was awesome!" he says enthusiastically. "How many of those moves do you have?"

"You _do_ want all of my secrets, don't you?" Cullen wiggles an eyebrow. "Remain my chew toy for this morning, and you shall see."

"Only if I can return the favor later with the shield practice and…oh, _hello_, Boss." The Bull breaks off his teasing and lifts a hand, waving it in the air and somewhat managing to look a bit…sheepish? "Didn't know you were due in today?"

"I _certainly_ did not expect finding the captain of our auxiliary reconnaissance forces and our Commander-General to have half-naked grappling demonstrations in the courtyard." That clipped voice is unmistakable; and Cullen spins around to find the Inquisitor watching them from the saddle of a grey Orlesian mare with what might be slight amusement on her features.

Two things go through his mind almost simultaneously. _Maker's Breath, she is gorgeous even covered in travel muck and fatigued from long ride, _and _it's not that she hasn't seen me half-naked before, _and that's when he feels the mother of all blushes coming on.

"Oh, do not stop on my account," Roxanne says, waving a gloved hand; and _yes_, Cullen thinks with a spinning head, _she is definitely smiling_, _thank Andraste_, as she looks both of them over with rather deliberate slowness. "After all, I was on the road for weeks with only Blackwall's beard to keep me company."

"Hey!" Cullen hears the Warden's protest from the left, almost lost in the laughter that rises up from all those on the training grounds. _Did she just make a joke?_, he thinks, almost disbelieving. "Quit that shit, will you? There's nothing wrong with my beard!"

"For birds, sure," Sera chimes in, poking her head out from behind him. "I mean, yeah, for…"

"Let's not get carried away with the innuendos, children." That's, of course, Hawke, and Cullen notices how some of Roxanne's company look immediately slightly chastised. He also spots a Grey Warden uniform and a face he vaguely recalls from that mad day in Kirkwall when his commanding officer turned into a red statue.

_Stroud_, he remembers, memory of him striding through magefire and fallen abominations rising. _His name is Stroud, and he was there with Hawke's little sister, Bethany that day._

The amount of people from his past in _that_ city is rising alarmingly. Cullen hopes this is not something that will aggravate his condition.

Which is surprisingly stable so far, given the severity of the last attack. Cullen is cautiously optimistic about the regime he's devised for himself and which, he's keenly aware, is maintained with the help of at least half a dozen individuals in Skyhold. It is yet another mark of the changes within himself that he does not feel this an intrusion on his privacy. He, after all, asked Cassandra to watch out for him. In turn, she did the sensible thing and consulted the Inquisitor, who, also being very sensible and practical, enlisted others to ensure he remains in prime condition to lead her armies. If this involves Flissa making sure he gets regular meals sent to him to his quarters when he's stuck there working, Adan and Elan repeatedly asking him to give his opinion on some 'herbal tonics' they are experimenting with as sleeping aids, Cassandra and The Bull offering sparring assistance, Lysette and Rylen previewing his correspondence daily, Vivienne supplying him with light conversation regarding rather fascinating facets of courtly life during dinnertime, not to mention Varric leaving copies of his _Hard in Hightown_ serial in his office on a regular basis…

Well. That's what friends do, after all.

"I propose a commencement of this discussion in the tavern with somewhat more beer than what we have now." Hawke waves a hand towards the _Herald's Rest_. "It's cold here, and we're disturbing important morning training… things." She throws a look at Cullen and whistles. "You know, I had _no_ idea you were into that bare-chested barbarian look, but..."

She winks, and Cullen somehow doubts that this would be as neatly filed into the 'things friends do for each other' category as everything else. Then again, one never knows with Marian Hawke, does one?

"Shall I dig around in the armory for that Avvar stuff from the Fallow Mire expedition of yours, Roxanne; what do you think?" she says now, tilting her head towards the Inquisitor who has a decidedly contemplative look on her face.

_Yes, just when I think my morning can't possibly get any worse, it kind of does._

And then, inexplicably, blessedly, miraculously, it gets better again.

"Oh, _la_." There is that Orlesian shrug again, accompanied with a slight scrunching up of her nose. It makes Roxanne, for lack of a better word, absolutely _adorable_, but Cullen files that thought away in the 'never under any circumstances should this be revealed' category and reflexively looks around to see if Cole is somewhere in the vicinity. "As long as no one wants you and me to mud-wrestle as an equal spectacle, Hawke, we are good, I think." She clicks her tongue at her horse and waves a hand. "As you were, everyone; a lovely morning for grappling exercises."

She turns her mount with practiced ease, but before they trot away towards the stables, she throws a look back over her shoulder and says, with an exaggerated arm flourish towards Cullen and Bull, leaving him _completely_ bewildered:

"And I truly appreciated the welcoming sights, gentlemen. It is _good_ to be home."

Hawke's snort and Sera's laughter rings into Cullen's ears for quite a while after that, as he attempts to get through the rest of the practice, using every ounce of professionalism he has remaining. The Qunari's tendency to not particularly care about how he throws his weight into the exercises helps to keep him focused, and he manages to finish without more than a couple of bruises.

He's leaning on the fence of the grounds, with his shirt properly on and tucked in at last, doublet around his shoulders against the wind but unbuttoned and feels actually pretty good about how the morning practice went. The soldiers in advanced training are going through the guards and the first two plays with the lower and upper keys, and he keeps trading the occasional correction or instruction with them, when he hears The Iron Bull's sharp intake of breath next to him.

"Oh shit," the great Qunari says quietly. "We're in trouble."

"What?" Cullen hears Dorian saying, but as he looks up towards the doors of the tavern, he feels his eyes go wide and the air goes out of his lungs with one painful exhale as something in his stomach constricts.

Three women just walked out of the Herald's Rest, right next to each other, and are now heading straight towards the training grounds. It's Champion and Viscountess of Kirkwall Marian Hawke; Seeker of Truth and Right Hand of the Divine Cassandra Pentaghast, and the Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste, Lady Roxanne Trevelyan. They stroll towards them with that purposeful, measured stride that is only ever used by women who are used to carry sharp weapons and armor; their steps are slow with just enough swing in the hips to indicate that the armor they normally wear is much heavier than what they have on now: light chain hauberks and vambraces and sword belts.

Most people stop and stare, training forgotten, and Cullen is shamelessly doing the same. Those three, he thinks, are like lionesses of the Western Approach stalking their prey in sand and short grass, with the eyes of those who know that they can and _will_ inflict terrible violence on anyone in their way… Right now, however, they are just content walking and looking dangerous and lethal and…

Cullen knows he just swallowed audibly and he's pretty sure that every man even half-alive and under ninety in the courtyard is contemplating absolutely forbidden thoughts just like he does, because, _Maker_…

"I am told by Seeker Pentaghast here," Roxanne Trevelyan says, pulling herself over the fence in one smooth motion and swinging her legs around to sit, "that you have taken unfair advantage of her time when it came to sparring sessions, Commander." Next to her, Marian Hawke and Cassandra Pentaghast are following suit, looking for all the world like they are absolutely unaware of the effect they just had on every warm-blooded male in Skyhold who saw them.

"I…" He clears his throat, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. "She is the most experienced sword-and-shield warrior in Skyhold, Inquisitor. If I offended…"

"Not at all." Cassandra says, carefully moving her shoulder around in a little arc and Cullen pales a bit, remembering a full body slam from a week ago that knocked her on the ground and dislocated the joint there. He is still feeling a bit guilty about that one, however much she insisted that all was well. "I merely suggested to the Inquisitor that it was time for some change." She stretches up, arching her back and sliding off onto the training ground; Cullen sees at least four of his trainees swallow. "We need to prepare for all eventualities. Dorian, you and I will move over there," she indicates a corner of the yard near the infirmary, "and we shall practice some nullifying techniques. Without, hopefully, setting fire to the invalid," she adds with a slight scowl and Dorian has the good grace to look a bit chastised, because he also remembers last week. "Messere Hawke volunteered to assist with Captain Bull regarding two-handed versus shield techniques for the rest of the morning."

Hawke winks at the Qunari.

"I promise I will not run around in circles in the yard, captain," she says mildly. "I only reserve that for Arishoks, you know."

The Iron Bull guwaffs and Cullen can't hide a smirk himself, remembering that famous single combat in Kirkwall.

"Ha! I like her, Seeker," the Bull says, and executes a very fine Orlesian-style bow. "I promise I will be gentle, Champion. Unless, of course you prefer otherwise."

"Nah, it's shiny, Captain." Hawke slides off the railing and stalks towards the mesmerized trainees. "I'm old and harmless these days, really. " She spins around, arms held at an angle, that lopsided grin of hers on full display. "See? Come, children, pet my head."

"I'm pleased to see you've reconciled your differences with Hawke, Cassandra," Cullen says hastily, because really, at this point the conversation just needs to be moved along.

"I did not have differences with the Champion, Cullen," Cassandra says precisely and a bit too stiffly. "As a point of fact, I was attempting to find her to join us. My differences were entirely with Varric." She pulls her sword out, shrugs and looks at Dorian with a determined face. "Shall we, then?"

"Thank you _oh_ so much, Commander," Dorian mutters, "for bringing that one up right before she knocks me on my ass. Please do send flowers for my funeral."

"Oh, stop being so melodramatic, Dorian," Cassandra says as they move away towards the corner of the yard. "Seeker powers are different from Templars. You will be fine."

"So." Cullen throws a cautious side glance at Roxanne, as he realizes that with the Bull and Hawke taking over the training, he's pretty much finished here. "Does that mean more humiliation for me against your unassailable druffalo?"

"Hm?" Roxanne balances on the railing with her hands clasped in her lap, leaning slightly forward, watching Hawke cackling madly at something The Iron Bull just said to one of the soldiers. "Oh. My apologies, but no." She makes a face, shakes her head; Cullen watches her almost physically pulling herself out of a mood that tried to settle itself over her. "I just…" She looks at him sideways and sighs. "Are you still all right to talk about…?" She makes a vague waving motion with her hand, "You know…"

She is usually so eloquent, her speech so organized and clear, that it takes a little bit for him to figure out what she meant.

"Ah." He nods, a little bit too enthusiastically. "Of course, Inquisitor, I'm at your disposal." He isn't sure what this is about, but the facts are there, and they are slightly worrying. She has just arrived back to Skyhold, went straight to the Herald's Rest for presumably a tankard as Hawke indicated, and then came here to grab him and…

_Shit_. _Is she about to have another episode?_

"Thank you." She slides off the railing. "I appreciate that." Her formal cadences are back, but the tremulous smile she throws his way as they start walking betrays that it's merely a façade. "I know I probably should have gone to change and rest and do this by the book the way sensible leaders do it when they arrive back from an extended forward campaign, but…" She exhales a bit too forcefully; Cullen notices that those carefully enunciated words are actually much less formal that they used to be. "I had a choice between sitting in the tavern and getting drunk with Sera and Blackwall, hauling you out to the training yard for sparring and getting hurt because I am so tired I can _hear_ colors right now, or going to the chapel and try to offer this all up to the Maker. And…" She shrugs and looks at him sideways, almost shy. "And I really do not wish to see all the people I would probably meet if I did any of the above. So I am asking you."

"What happened?" He's really just following her as she strides up the wide stairs leading to the great hall. "Your reports from Crestwood were…Forgive me for saying this, but they were not indicating anything that…"

"It was not anything there." Roxanne shakes her head almost angrily. "Let me be more precise: all the events in Crestwood and the news about the Wardens were about as bad as to be expected. Yes, all Wardens in Orlais are now hearing the Calling, which is their term for a certain ability enabling them to sense the end of their lives. Yes, their Commander is now cooperating with the Venatori to construct a blood ritual to somehow stall or stop this. Yes, an almost immediate redeployment of our forward troops into the Western Approach will be necessary to follow-up on this most disturbing development." She takes the steps by the two now, and Cullen realizes they are heading straight for the Great Hall.

"War Room debrief, Inquisitor?" he asks, increasing his stride to keep up. "I thought we had one scheduled only for tomorrow to accommodate your request for rest after your arrival. I wasn't aware it changed."

"It hasn't, Cullen." It hits him that she's using his name now and he's still calling her by her title; it hits him that they only ever drop the formality when no one else can hear them, and even then it's only the titles they don't use. It hits him, and makes him a bit sad, a bit wistful, and a bit mad at himself for only ever hinting at his feelings towards her, never actually _saying_ anything, not even in his letters. Not even after…"I need advice on something. You are my advisor. And…" he can see that delicate pink shade spread on her cheeks, "…this is not something I wish to discuss with anyone else."

"Oh." That is not quite what he expected, to be honest, and it makes him just a bit uncomfortable. "Of course, Inquisitor…Roxanne." He hesitates. "Are we…going into your quarters? I do not think…"

"Cullen." Her voice sounds exasperated. "If you are going to say that it is not appropriate for one of the chief advisors of the Inquisitor to advise her in private, I will hit you. With all due respect, right here in the middle of the Great Hall, for every Orlesian hanger-on to see. Not to mention your own soldiers." She huffs. "It is broad daylight, for Andraste's sake. Even the most debauched Val Royeaux courtier would not think that I am set out to seduce you right after arriving from a mission and march you through the Hall before doing so."

"I…ah, that's not what I meant…" Cullen hates that he almost choked on those words, and hates the fact that he knows he blushed. And he hates the fact that yes, of course he's lying by saying that.

"Yes, it was," Roxanne says calmly and smiles a little, but the smile is brittle. "And I was being nice to Orlesian courtiers. I _have_ lived in Val Royeaux; of course they are probably thinking exactly that. I am hoping the Inquisition is not an organization where such rumors should even be considered for a second. I also hope you agree."

_About the Inquisition not being the hotbed of rumors or about the seducing part_, Cullen almost says, but luckily bites it back just in time. _Because I think you are wrong on both counts, _but of course he doesn't say that either.

_Coward._

"As you say, Roxanne," he ends up saying, neither here, nor there, and she looks at him sharply as she opens the door to her quarters and marches up the stairs ahead of him.

He has never been here, except at the first walkthrough when they determined that this suite of rooms will be the future private quarters of the Inquisitor. That decision paid off when it was discovered by Master Gatsi that its well-lit largest room is connected directly to the war room by a hidden staircase in the wall. Josephine and Vivienne were responsible for the inner decoration, though, not the dwarf. Cullen has to admit as he follows Roxanne up the set of stairs and through yet another double door, that they spared no expense.

There are a lot of personal touches, though, that are not the gilded Orlesian wall sconces and great stained glass windows. The hand-hooked rug in front of the fireplace is obviously of Free Marches origin. The dark walnut workdesk dwarfs his own, but the neatly sorted piles of paperwork and the tray of letters set at an angle make it look almost graceful. And the reading corner near the great fireplace with what looks like a low couch strewn with pillows, a colorful Rivaini throw and side table and bookshelf piled with tomes not in the least organized, but betraying a haphazard reading habit.

"All right." Roxanne does not even slow down. She marches to the side where someone piled her saddlebags. "This will make it much easier to understand; if I start explaining, I will get all emotional and I absolutely do not need that right now." She unbuttons a pouch, pulls out a folded letter, and hands it to Cullen, who takes it with slightly numb fingers. "Please read it while I shred the armor and make sure I stink less." She nods at a door by the fireplace, presumably with her bedroom on the other side. "I will be right back. I think Flissa left some hot tea on the sideboard over there when they brought up my baggage—help yourself. The sofa will swallow your soul if you are not careful, though." She shakes her head. "Forgive me, I am still not quite myself. Do give me a moment…"

She disappears behind the door; the latch closes with a click, and Cullen is alone with a slightly wrinkled onionskin in his hand and a growing sense of unease as he starts to read.

_Inquisitor_, the letter says, very officially, in Leliana's tiny, precise handwriting he immediately recognizes,_ I cannot delay_ _bringing this to your attention, even though I'm fully aware of the consequences. I'll be brief. The agent I've placed in your family's household has informed me that there was an infiltration attempt by Venatori amongst the servants. This particular attempt was unsuccessful, but the agent uncovered a plot to kidnap at least one, possible multiple family members and eliminate the rest._

"Shit." Cullen says softly, lowering himself onto the couch, hands gripping the letter tightly. He tries, somewhat in vain, to imagine how he would react if someone tried to threaten Mia, Branson or Rosalie the way this letter implies Roxanne's family was. Would he be able to carry on with his duties, or would he leave everything behind and grab the fastest horse in the stables to race to South Reach on his own immediately? And would he tell anyone?

_By the time you receive this letter, _he reads, that dreadful feeling in his guts churning ever tighter, _I've dispatched my best squadron of agents to extract your family. They're to be brought to Skyhold with the best possible speed to keep them safe. I'm taking all responsibility for these actions and am at your disposal to discuss upon your arrival. Maker keep you in His light. Sister Nightingale._

He closes his eyes for a second, head tilting back from the weight of just what he's read. Not merely the fact that the Trevelyans are in danger, that they are drawn into the lethal game between the Venatori and the Inquisition, but that Leliana…

He feels nauseous. Leliana _told no one_. Not Josephine, not him, not Cassandra, not even the Inquisitor until _after_ she acted, until after she decided what to do and simply did it, starting with placing an agent in the Trevelyan household Maker know how long ago and…

No wonder Roxanne is slightly distraught. Cullen knows he would have marched straight into the spymaster's office on top of the rookery tower, slammed his fists on her table and demanded explanation. Fade take it, he's half-tempted to do it right now on Roxanne's behalf.

But that would accomplish nothing. Leliana, Sister Nightingale, the Left Hand of the Divine did what she did for reasons of her own, and even though Cullen strongly disagrees with _how_ she did it, he is experienced enough by now with both politics and with dealing with the enigmatic spymaster to know that he should withhold judgment until he has more facts at his disposal.

Roxanne, on the other hand…She is probably devastated. Herald of Andraste or not, she is still relying on the trust she instinctively has in people, and Cullen can see how her sharp mind probably immediately picked up on the implications of Leliana's actions. These past several months were a hard school of leadership for her indeed; Cullen has been Knight-Captain and second of the Templars in Kirkwall for more than ten years and he is definitely man enough to admit that at Roxanne's age he would have crumbled at the weight and pressure of what she had to endure lately.

_This is all going to go to the Fade in a handbasket if I don't handle it right_, he thinks as he looks around for that sideboard and the tea that Roxanne mentioned, more to do something with his hands than from real need to drink.

_I need to think. I need to remain calm and professional. I need not to think about that speech I was composing for the last two weeks about this mass of feelings inside of me. About how it makes me so happy to receive her letters when she's out in the field. About how much it meant to me that she trusted my judgment after that horrible breakdown. About how absolutely nothing ever was going on between me and Hawke. About how I miss her every time she leaves Skyhold. About how I look after her every time she leaves the War Room when she's here, watching her hips move, imagining…_

_Stop it, Rutherford._

_You need to figure out how to talk to her about this latest development. About Leliana's letter. Without coming across as either patronizing, dismissive, or defending Leliana. Or a babbling idiot entirely in the clutches of his dreams and desires, not to mention his lyrium withdrawal and its side effects. You are one of her advisors, as she put it, that's why you're here now. Not because of some insane hope that she might actually also have feelings for you… so put those dreams aside, you washed-up old ex-Templar, and serve._

He places the letter very carefully on the reading table and busies himself with pouring from the graceful and expensive-looking Orlesian porcelain teapot he finds on the sideboard along with other paraphernalia similar to what he remembers seeing in the old Amell mansion he visited when Hawke's mother was still alive. Cullen remembers how stiff and uncomfortable he was the first time he got an invitation to one of Leandra Amell's little afternoon gatherings. He smiles briefly at the memory while he rummages around and fixes his drink with a touch of fresh milk and a tiny spoonful of sugar, just the way Hawke taught him. He inhales the subtly spiced scent rising from his cup deeply and feels something tight in his chest relax just enough so that he breathes easier. Roxanne apparently prefers her tea strongly spiced with cinnamon, cloves and some other spices Cullen can't identify. It is oddly comforting and almost-jolting to the palate at the same time, especially after the bland soldier's fare Cullen is used to.

His eyes are drawn to the spines of the books on the shelves, naturally, and, before he knows it he's standing half-bent, with his tea almost-forgotten in his hand, studying the titles with a slightly guilty feeling as if he was spying on something…intimate.

_It's just books, old boy. Relax. You are not rummaging through her smalls drawer._

Still, the possibility of seeing the tomes she reads when no one else is here… Cullen can just see her after nightfall, colorful Rivaini throw pulled around her shoulders, tired feet resting on a pillow as she curls up on the sofa… He swallows as his imagination overtakes him in an instant, picturing her pale skin, translucent at the wrists as she turns the page, lyrium-blue veins shining through, illuminated by the verdant glow of the mark on her left palm. Her smooth forehead slightly wrinkled in concentration, emphasizing the dueling scar, ruby-red lips slightly parted as she thinks upon a passage, snow-white hair falling free about her shoulder in great waves… He has never seen her hair down, he realizes, and the sudden, dizzying image of pulling the hairpins out of that severely coiled updo of hers with his own hands causes desire swell up dangerously…

_Oh, look, a book on strategy you've never read_. _Quick, Rutherford, grab some dry passages from a book by a long dead Tevinter general so you don't end up absolutely embarrassing yourself when Roxanne comes back to the room and finds you in a state more suited to a sixteen-year old_.

"_The strategos should always be cautious in exercising matters of immediate troop deployment," _he reads, opening the slender tome with slightly trembling fingers and randomly letting his eye wonder over a passage. "_That is, however, not an excuse for pusillanimity n claiming concern for the safety of troops. If you wanted to safeguard your army, why did you venture into enemy territory?"_

That does the trick, combined with some breathing and thoughts of the icy peaks of the Frostbacks, so by the time Roxanne returns to the room, Cullen is halfway through the book, and in an entirely fascinated state of mind but for an entirely different reason that before.

"_Do everything possible to find out, on a daily basis, where the enemy is and what he is doing. Even if he is not cunning, do not underestimate him—act as if he were ingenious." _ Where did you find this?" he asks, barely lifting his eyes from the pages as she walks in. "He's talking about a regular spy force, employed by the general on the field, sending them daily to discover the enemy's secrets. This is almost like…"

Her short, bitter laugh makes him stop and stare at her in surprise.

"All the books on that shelf…and that is what you…?" She shakes her head and steps to the sofa to throw herself down right next to him. "You know who gave that to me? Leliana."

"Oh." The soft sigh from his lips is only partly of the surprise over her words. A larger part of it is that she is sitting so close their shoulders touch, and with neither of them wearing armor, it is rather electrifying.

She is still absolutely properly dressed, covered from her neck to her toes, but she left her doublet off and her billowing white shirt with lace at cuff and throat is made of heavy silk that slides with every breath on her skin with an almost-audible sound. Her hair is pinned up properly, but the dampness of the tresses ad the slight redness of her cheeks indicate she took at least a hasty wash before changing. The scent of her lavender soap tickles Cullen's nose.

"So." She sighs deeply, dropping her head back to the back of the sofa, the graceful curve of her neck marred by tautness born from the news in that letter, no doubt. But she was never one to shy away from hard things, so she immediately continues, using her brisk, no-nonsense Inquisitor voice Cullen knows so well from the War Room. "You have read the missive, I take it?"

Cullen nods carefully. Roxanne shuts her eyes and swallows.

"I had some time to think on the road, you know. I was not even all that mad by the time we arrived back. And then, seeing Skyhold and.…." She shrugs. "All of it just came back. I can see why she did what she did, I can see how it is the right thing to do, but…"

"But you don't have to like the way she did it." Cullen says cautiously, mimicking the way she sits almost unselfconsciously, and feeling some of the tension leaking out of him. "And probably because when you had time to think about it, you realized that had you been in her place, you would have done the exact same thing." He pauses and adds. "And that usually rankles."

Roxanne snorts, and Cullen secretly breathes a sign of relief.

"Maker, you can say that again. '_Rankles'_…" she says, tentatively weighing the word. "That is a good word. The fact that I was not hysterical over the fact that the Venatori just tried to do harm to my family, but over the fact that our spymaster placed spies as a protection in their home without consulting me previously…well, that alone should have told me just how deeply this pile stinks." Cullen feels her hand touch his arm, feather-light and settle there, in the crook of his elbow. "Thank you for talking me off my high horse, Cullen. It was wrong of me to assume that Leliana's concerns about my family's security should always take into consideration my filial sensibilities." A pause; he keeps his eyes closed because this is one of those fragile and precious moments that would shatter otherwise. "And I still talk like someone in a dusty book. What I meant is: of course, I am aware that the security of that operation and the agent in my family's household…that Leliana would always place the well-being of my immediate…oh, dammit, I probably need to get drunk to sound like normal people!"

Cullen chuckles. He can't help it; the laughter somehow just bubbles up and out of his chest over the absurdity of the whole thing. He also realizes suddenly that he doesn't have a headache, and their leader has apparently decided that she is not going to cleave their spymaster into half the next time she sees her.

_It's the small things that are important,_ he thinks, still smiling a bit. _Like her hand on my arm, like the way she slowly realizes just how stiff and formal she is in most situations and tries to remedy it, or even makes fun of it now. Like the way her nose scrunches up when she's annoyed with herself over something._

Like the way they are sitting on that sofa together, in quiet companionship, between two bouts of saving the world.

"What I really think bothers you," he says quietly, "is that your family is coming here."

'Well, of course!" she chuffs, indignantly, but her hand remains on his arm. Cullen feels no small amount of triumph over that, even though his heartbeat is practically audible. "They are not used to traveling at all. Papa's gout makes it a nightmare, and _maman_ most likely is in a tizzy to leave her garden behind. Fredick is probably fretting over the whole thing and Rhodri…" She makes a little hiccupy sound, and Cullen's eyes finally pop open because, Maker, _is she crying_…?

"They will be fine," he offers, cautiously, tilting his head sideways and looking at her from so close he can see each individual freckle around her nose. It makes him dizzy a bit, like good wine. "It will be cold on the road and they probably need to lack for a lot of comfort, but once they're here…"

"I told Hawke." Roxanne says, sniffling a bit. Her eyes are shining with unshed tears, her nose is slightly red, and Cullen has the urge to take her in his arms like never before. "After I got the letter, I mean. She… she sent a raven back to Leliana when I couldn't make myself. She said she made sure Fenris was found and that he was sent to help to retrieve them." She rubs her nose. Even here, in her own rooms she is wearing a glove over her left hand, and Cullen's heart goes slightly broken by the sight. "If anyone can bring them through safely across the Waking Sea and half of Ferelden, if we know anyone who can be trusted with this absolutely, it's him; that's what Hawke said to me and wrote to Leliana, and so..."

Another sniffle. He doesn't even think as he reaches into his pocket and hands over his handkerchief.

"Maker, Cullen, here we go again," she says in between blowing her nose and dabbing at her eyes. "Look at me: the Herald of Andraste crying on your shoulders and borrowing your personal items for how many times?"

"Doesn't matter, lady," he answers honestly, because, really, what can he say? "Like you said: with him they'll be safe. Will you speak to Leliana?"

"Soon," Roxanne says, sniffling. "As soon as I no longer look like a child who just had a temper tantrum, " she adds, in a lighter voice Cullen is very, very much glad to hear. "And I promise I will not break her Satinalia gift either."

"She's your spymaster." Cullen says drily. "She probably _knows_ what you got her for Satinalia." He snorts as a thought occurs to him. "For all I know, she probably subtly influenced the merchant to sell you exactly what she wanted."

"I _knew_ it; I should not have bought the purple shoes with the bells. Damnation." Roxanne sighs, and then (Cullen thinks he's dreaming this, for sure) she drops her head on his shoulder. "Thank you. Again," she says, in an almost-whisper. "I am not very good at this, but…"

"Think nothing of it." He knows his voice is just a little bit rougher than usual, but hopes she does not notice. He holds himself very, very still as he glances down on her, and realizes that she is completely exhausted, and is probably half-asleep, if her heavy-lidded eyes and deepening breathing are any indicators.

"Will you stay?" she mumbles, turning into his shoulder the way she did back in Haven in that long-gone washroom where he first held her after a breakdown. Cullen feels his arm curl around her almost reflexively and finds yet another fragile, precious moment he should preserve forever in his heart.

"Always," he hears himself say, and he suddenly remembers with crystal clarity of an old song from Orlais. Maryden, their bard sings it in the tavern from time to time, but hasn't for a while now; but Cullen realizes suddenly, listening to the slowing breath of the woman falling asleep leaning against him, that he, from the very first time he heard it, knew that it was Roxanne's in his mind.

And it always will be.

_Blanche com lys, plus que rose vermeille,_

_Resplendissent com rubis d'Oriant._

_En remirant vo biaute non pareille,_

_Blanche com lys, plus que rose vermeille._

_Suy si ravis que mon cuers toudis veille_

_Afin que serve a loy de fin amant,_

_Blanche com lys, plus que rose vermeille,_

_Resplendissant com rubis d'Oriant._

_White as lily, redder than a rose,_

_More splendid than a ruby Oriental_

_Your beauty I regard. No equal shows_

_White as lily, redder than a rose._

_I am so ravished, my heart knows no repose_

_Until I serve you, a lover fine and gentle._

_White as lily, redder than a rose,_

_More splendid than a ruby Oriental._


	9. More Bright Than Of the Midday Sun

**More Bright than Of the Midday Sun**

_Upon that misty night  
In secrecy, beyond such mortal sight  
Without a guide or light  
Than that which burned so deeply in my heart  
That fire t'was led me on  
And shone more bright than of the midday sun  
To where he waited still  
It was a place where no one else could come_

_-Loreena McKennitt, Dark Night of the Soul (original, St. John of the Cross)_

**A/N: **

**Apologies for the longer than usual wait—vacation time meant I had no real computer access and typing out on a small tablet was not particularly appealing. Partially as a consequence of that, though, this is going to be a bit longer than usual. And because Hawke for some reason keeps inserting herself into this story a quite lot more than I originally planned. There were also clearly off-screen shenanigans by members of the Inner Circle involved to make everything in this piece happen; the outtakes of said shenanigans and hijinks might eventually make it into a separate story.**

"Come on, Cullen, it will be fun, I promise!" Leliana insists, tugging on his arm with a smile that is almost, but not quite, genuine. One never knows with the spymaster, although right now she looks like she is actually _enjoying_ herself, if that tiny giggle at the end of her sentences is to be believed. "It's not that no one will know who you are…"

"Or who _we_ are…" Josephine injects, almost, but not quite giggling herself. Cullen lifts an eyebrow. Were these two starting the celebrations a bit too early? He detects a slightly bitter odor in the air around both of them he cannot quite place. "The point is, like Lia says, to have fun. And masks at Satinalia are fun. Definitely."

"Fun." He sighs, more for the sake of his image as the stern commander of their forces than actual exacerbation. The mood of Satinalia is quite infectious, and in the past few months they had such little reason to really just let go and relax. He understands very well; he just finds it difficult to get in the same frame of mind.

It does not, however, hurt to try.

"It is, _perhaps_, a possibility." He allows himself a small grin. They are, after all, quite adorable, decked out as they are in what he guesses their traditional finery: Josie in Antivan silks and Leliana in Orlesian brocade. Both properly dignified as befitting their station, but the colors are deep and rich, enhanced by slashes and ribbons and embroidery.

In short, they look like the fine proper ladies they are, very familiar with the more upper-class traditions of Satinalia, in the exact way he is not.

"There were no masks in Honnleath." Cullen says softly, dragging his finger around the gilding on the _thing_ that the spymaster placed on his desk. He has to admit that it's an impressive work of art. _Probably way too heavy, though_. "Small village, pretty much everyone knew everyone. It would have been pointless, even if we could have afforded it."

"Ah." Leliana nods. "And naturally, Kinloch Hold would have had absolutely no foolishness of mask-wearing mages cavorting on the corridors, yes?" She has been there; she walked those corridors with the Hero of Ferelden. She remembers.

"Exactly," Cullen says, momentarily distracted by memories, and he feels Leliana's hand on his arm for a second, squeezing.

"You're not there anymore," she says quietly so even Josephine can't hear her, dropping her guise for a second, eyes shining with sympathy. "There, or in Kirkwall. We are the Inquisition, and it will be all right to… relax a bit, Cullen. I promise."

She never actually thanked her for his intervention with the Inquisitor the other day regarding Roxanne's parents. Not with words; the former bard and Left Hand of the Divine would never do something as simplistic and straightforward as that. But there were signs. More ravens assigned to the forward deployed troops. The requests for scouts in the Western Approach and the Emerald Graves were upgraded to full platoons as opposed to single detached members of the spymaster's forces. The cessation of discussion about his hair over the war table meetings. If Cullen had to be brutally honest with himself, he perhaps appreciated that one the most because admitting to the use of hair wax even to only to those three women present at the War Council would have been rather uncomfortable.

And now this.

"Fun, huh?" He picks up the mask and weighs it in his hand. "And I expect _this_ will help me with that. It's… lighter than I expected."

From his chair, Adjutant Felix, the large orange tabby that decided to adopt him when they arrived to Skyhold all those months ago, watches them with deep distrust, his tail swishing.

"It's mostly leather, paper paste and gilding, Cullen." Josephine smiles, crooks a finger at the cat and coos. "And what do _we_ think? Is it suitably gowgeous?"

Felix narrows his eyes and hisses, scarred ears flattening against his head slightly.

"Does not like babytalk," Cullen says somewhat apologetically and snaps his fingers at the cat. "Stop that, you. The lady just asked for your opinion."

Felix flicks his tail, vaguely interested, but not the least intimidated, and starts washing.

"Well. At least he didn't decide to mark his territory this time," Leliana says drily, remembering that incident in the War Room a few weeks ago and Cullen winces slightly. "Small favors, no?" She waves a hand at the pile of clothes at his desk and she's all business-like again. "Now: how do _you_ like the outfit?"

"Exactly as an Orlesian would imagine Fereldan clothes of the past." Cullen's response is instinctual, and he can see on both of their faces that it was slightly insulting. "The ah… workmanship is exquisite, though," he adds hastily, and tries the grin again, hoping it might soothe the sting. He is very grateful that he's not in charge of diplomatic relations, and he prays that he never has to attend any important state functions anywhere in any capability. Also, he's happy that these two, somehow, in the past months, decided to become his friends. "And, um, at least it's not a full-on silver armor suit."

"We felt that would have been too much of a giveaway," Leliana says, eyes softening and she pats his shoulder reassuringly. "You'll look magnificent in brigandine, plaid wool and fur just as well. Practically casual," she adds, with that giggle in her voice again.

"Not funny, _Sister_. You absolutely owe me a favor after tonight." Cullen says darkly, lifting the brigandine with its silver-and-fur accents and stares at the heavy wool tassets attached to it in muted plaid.

_Probably representing cloth-covered steel, but without the steel—this is a costume, after all. Absolutely impractical and ridiculous, of course, but_…

"On the other hand, I probably will be the only person who is not freezing cold in the Great Hall," he adds, with some satisfaction, looking at the two women and lifting an eyebrow. "Well: can I please have some privacy to put all of this on? Or do you need to stay and make sure my pants fit…?"

"Oh." Josephine blushes. "No. Of course. We trust you. Um." She links her arm into Leliana's. "We shall… meet you later, then. In the Great Hall. Soon."

Leliana chuckles.

"Thanks for this, Cullen," she says enigmatically: he's not sure if she means the fact that he's willing to dress up for tonight, or flustering Josephine? "And don't worry. I know I owe you that report on the intelligence regarding the Venatori movements in the Nazaire Pass. Despite the holiday," she dimples. "The advisors' work is never done: I'll find a way to get it to you as soon as the copying is done. I have a _most_ unfortunate clerk and a runner on duty tonight so Maker wills it you'll get it by morning."

Cullen doesn't ask what those poor souls did that ended them on copying duty on a feastday: he has a few soldiers amongst those guarding the walls today who earned that dubious distinction as well and who should be grateful they didn't end on latrine duty or worse. He bows slightly as the two women exit his office, and there he remains, facing the stack of clothes and that rather silly half-mask on his desk.

He stares for a few seconds, gathering courage almost as if before battle.

"Come on, Rutherford," he mutters to himself, and starts on his pauldrons. "You _can_ do this."

There is a throaty almost-cough from his chair: Felix is stretching, looking at the clothes with renewed interest, and he can almost see his thoughts.

"Don't. Even. Think. About. It." Cullen says measuredly between his teeth, deepening his voice almost to a growl. "Fereldans are supposed to smell like wet dogs. Not like cat piss." He pauses, tilts his head to the side. "Maybe _after_ Satinalia."

Felix seems to be satisfied with that offer, and sits back on his haunches, continuing his fastidious cleaning ritual.

"Yes, I'm perfectly fine, thank you," Cullen mutters while yanking off various parts of armor and clothing, slowly but inexorably changing into a rather romanticized version of what King Calenhad's historical outfit _sans_ silver gleaming and with a lot of leather and plaid wool would have looked like. "Why do you ask?" _ I'm apparently attending a festival originally dedicated to a Tevinter god, but now mainly the feast of eating, drinking and wearing awful costumes. Did I mention drinking and eating a lot?_

By now it's almost a habit, this almost-compulsive talking whenever the feline decides to accompany him. Cullen supposes it's another way for his mind to cope with the pressures of his job and the effects of withdrawal: seeing the animal as a companion. When he mentioned it to Solas during one of their conversations about the progress of his health, the elf, with one of his enigmatic smiles, agreed.

"_You were a reinforcer of reality as a Templar, Commander," Solas said. "It stands to reason that now, no longer being one, you dare to venture outside of the realm of sane and safe." He shrugged. "Talking to animals that choose us freely…I see no harm in that at all." He patted his shoulder. "I would, however, like to see you immediately should he talk back."_

He was slightly bothered by that 'reinforcer of reality' comment, but upon reflecting on it, he had to admit that, as usual, the elf was eerily precise with his definitions. Negating magic, the way Templars used their lyrium-augmented abilities was, essentially, to deny the powers of the Fade and thus, nonreality.

_I refuse to entertain the notion, however, that I somehow wish to let my hair down by treating a cranky and incontinent tomcat as a human. However much my mind might want to overcompensate for not being a Templar any more._

_Or however much an apostate elven mage wishes to confuse you about you state of mind, _the old Cullen who still sort of raises his ugly head inside of him whispers. He's not a frequent visitor these days, but sometimes, when the night is quiet and there's no one around, he looks at him disapprovingly with the self-righteousness of a twenty-year old and shakes his head. _Associating with known apostates, Qunari heathens and Tevene heretics, let alone something that might be a demon made manifest, and deciding to form an organization that is knowingly disassociates itself from the Chantry and all that it stands for? And you think you're still sane?_

_Not to mention those dreams and forbidden thoughts you harbor regarding the leader of said organization._

"Oh, sod this," he says, more to himself then to Felix, finishes the last clasp of his brigandine, grabs the cloak that is muted plaid with a short fur cape attached to it (no doubt this is Leliana's gentle jab at his bearskin cloak along with that ridiculous Lion of Ferelden moniker even his troops are calling him by now), pulls the mask over his face with one determined motion and waves to Felix who glares balefully at him from his own chair.

"When I'm done with this getup, you shall have it for a bed, ser. On my word."

Skyhold is all but buzzing with the excitement of a feastday; it is not dark yet but the torches are already lit on the battlements, and there are small lamps hung on ropes lining the path leading to the central keep. Josephine worked on this for a long time: musicians were hired, audited by Maryden, a long list of food and drink items was handed to Ser Morris, the quartermaster, there were almost-shouting matches with Cook regarding extra help, Vivienne insisted on redoing most of the drapes and curtains in the hall just for this one day…

Cullen had his own share of headaches too figuring out the guard rotations for today, as, naturally, everyone wanted to participate in the Satinalia festivities but no one in particular wanted drunken soldiers on duty, least of all their Commander. The solution was suggested by, of all people, The Iron Bull.

"_Hey, why not to offer an extra day's pay for those who swear not to drink tonight?" he said and winked at Cullen. "That way, they can get drunk tomorrow when they are off shift, and we will all be having fun for a second day punching their sorry asses out when they get cocky. Try for a good mix of old veterans and some of the new blood, along with a couple of your miscreants as a punishment, of course. They'll keep each other in line, watching like the hawk for anything they can lord over the other group. You know: professional jealousy, group dynamics, and all that fancy terminology I can't possibly understand."_

_Damned Ben-Hassrath was, of course right, _Cullen thinks now, slowly walking across the courtyard and up the stairs, and observing the soldiers on the walls standing perfectly at attention as he passes by. _Both about those on watch tonight checking each other like hawks, and about people still constantly underestimating the hulking Qunari's intelligence._ He quietly swears not to do the latter ever again, and makes a mental note of talking to Leliana as soon as possible to…

His thoughts fall apart, stuttering, failing, useless. They jumble and tangle with little flashes inside his skull, fragmented and almost painfully incomplete, swirling around that tall, proud, straight-backed and utterly breathtaking figure swathed in crimson, burgundy, white and silver, a riotously harmonious contradiction of icy winter pearls, silken cording, rich fiery velvets, brocades, and embroidery.

_Of course they put the Inquisitor in costume, too._

"And I promise there will be no chair-throwing this time, Your Worship," he hears Lieutenant Aclassi's voice as he bends over the Inquisitor's hand, standing at the wide open doors of the Great Hall. "I've talked to Grim about that."

"Hmmm." Cullen watches and has to remember to breathe as Roxanne tilts her head to a side, a pensive expression on her face looking at the mercenaries in front of her. "And if I ask you _very_ nicely at some point to create a diversion so I can slip out?" she asks slowly.

The Charger chuckles and bows again.

"As ever, we are at your service, Your Worship," he says. "Happy Satinalia."

"And to you, Lieutenant." Roxanne executes a perfect curtsy, no doubt, learned as a child of a noble household. "Your gifts were delivered and shall await you at your lodgings; I trust they will serve you well." She waves a hand towards the Hall. "Now, please go in and enjoy yourselves. I am told the liquor table is exceptional."

"Thank you, Your Worship." Aclassi makes a happy sound. "We helped hauling in some of those casks, so don't mind if we do."

He and the others with him from the Chargers' officer cadre disappear through the open doors, and Cullen is now suddenly under the scrutiny of a pair of Fade-green eyes, shining brightly under the delicate mask she's wearing.

"So that is what Josie was so giggly about this morning," she says drily, and Cullen swallows again, fighting the urge to rub the old wound at the back of his neck. "Where does she _find_ these things?"

"I…ah, have no idea, honestly," he answers, and hopes that his bow hides the blush creeping up on his cheeks. "I suspect she has a tailor in Val Royeaux? I mean, it's pretty awful, I know, but…"

"But it _is_ Satinalia," Roxanne says and pats her skirt as an explanation. "I completely understand your predicament, Commander. After all, as you see, I am also indulging my advisors by wearing _this_." She pauses and Cullen practically feels the weight of her stare. It's not exactly uncomfortable. On the contrary. He fights the slow, sweet heat starting to coil low in his belly and concentrates on breathing evenly.

_Maker's Breath. Stop looking at me that way. I could do without false hopes and dreams that can never be for just one evening._

"Actually, you _are_ wearing it rather well." Another pause. "It is supposed to be a horribly romanticized version of early Calenhad, I assume?"

"I think so," Cullen answers cautiously. "I'm highly suspicious about the amount of plaid, but…"

"Yes, well, at least you did not have to add an underdress to deal with the décolletage," Roxanne says almost absentmindedly, pointing at her chest, and Cullen tries very, _very_ hard not to stare. "I am all for the good cheer of Satinalia, but not if it makes me either catch a cold or have certain… parts fall out. I doubt Queen Asha Campana, who supposedly this costume represents, would have, anyway."

_Andraste save me._ Cullen's thoughts stutter again, and his heart speeds up as he realizes that if, indeed, Roxanne was not wearing the high-necked undergown in pale cream, the crimson-and-gold dress' bodice would absolutely expose a scandalous amount of…

"I'm not quite sure how…" Cullen cuts himself off mid-sentence, because there is just _no way_ he could even start thinking about _that_ without…

"Oh." Roxanne blushes suddenly. "Maker, I am _sorry_, I did not mean to…" She makes a little half-laughing sound, accompanied by that nose-scrunching of hers. "Well." She takes a deep breath. "My apologies if I made you uncomfortable, Commander."

_I'm not staring. I'm not staring._

"It's quite all right, Inquisitor." There are others behind him, laughing and whispering and he shamelessly uses that as an escape route. "If you'll excuse me, however…"

"Indeed; it seems I am holding you up, Commander." Roxanne goes all formal again. Her gloved hand is cool in his as he bows over it, formally, to hide his embarrassment.

"Maybe later…?" he hears her whisper, only to his ears as he straightens, and he sees a tiny, almost-tremulous smile in the corner of her mouth. "I can apologize better that way…?"

"Oh." That's all he can say first, because suddenly several things become clear to him with dizzying speed. One: she feels terribly alone right now, put out on display as it were, becoming a symbol for all those who line up behind him, not merely their people from Skyhold, but the noble guests from all corners of Thedas. Two: Josephine turned Satinalia into yet another of her diplomatic maneuvers, skillful but cold-headed, flawlessly using Roxanne's desire to be here for the traditional gift-giving season and perhaps taking her mind off a bit from her family's situation. Three: she is relaxed enough in his company that she felt it all right to make that comment about her dress. _Roxanne_, the always proper, always straight-laced Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste…who lately seemed to be much more…closer to earth, for lack of a better expression.

And this definitely does not make dreaming about what could never be easier, of course.

"I… of course, Inquisitor. I shall be…mingling, then," he says cautiously as he steps aside. And oh, as he does so, his eyes catch that slight dip of the head and slow curling of lips just as she turns to greet her next guest, and the sweet, coiling heat is back at the pit of his stomach the way he hasn't felt it since back in Kinloch Hold Solona Amell first smiled at him the same way.

_I'm lost and done for._

He does not quite know what's in the tankard that he grabs from the board set up at the side of the Hall, but by the time he sits down at the table where Varric and The Iron Bull hailed him from, he thinks his heartbeat slowed down reasonably enough to actually investigate it.

"Shit, Cullen," says the Bull, sniffing as he eyes his drink. "I've never figured you to someone favoring Chasind Sack Mead, but that just goes to show you I'm out of practice, I guess."

"Why?" Varric leans forward, as Cullen is busy trying to breathe after that sip, because, _Maker_, this tastes like nothing he had before. Sweet and warm and aromatic, like apple blossoms on a sunny day, with a bitter aftertaste that hits his head like a warhammer. "Author wants to know for posterity: what _did_ you figure he'd drink? Mackay's Single Malt?"

"Nah, that'd be trite." Bull shrugs and Cullen sees, through the haze of tears that rose in his eyes, that he also _winks_. "Flames of Our Lady, I think."

"'She is with us'!" Varric makes little quotation marks in the air with his fingers and laughs. "Indeed. This round is clearly yours, qunari."

"I'm right here, you know," Cullen says mildly, resolute that he shall not blush and takes another sip, a slightly larger one, because this is quite nice, actually. He _absolutely_ caught the insinuation in that exchange even though they were, on the surface, merely discussing a really potent and rare wine, and he's mildly surprised that he's not more incensed over it. "Would consider it a courtesy if you stopped discussing me as if I was somewhere else." He stares into the drink for a second before another sip that he turns around in his mouth to fully appreciate the aroma of happiness mingled with the bizarrely melancholy aftertaste of loss. "Which I would perchance like to."

The captain of the Chargers claps a great hand on his shoulder.

"I bet you would," he says slowly, and Varric snickers. "But you had that mead, so I doubt you'd be going anywhere soon."

Cullen considers while finishing the contents of his tankard and listens to the music spilling over the Hall from the elevated balcony that normally Vivienne's domain. It's _true_ that there's pleasant warmth in his chest that continues to spread in his body, but…

"Ah. There it is," Varric says, watching his face.

"What?" he hears himself say, with some indignation, but strangely sounding as if he's under a great blanket of wool for some reason. 'What _is_ there?"

"The Chasind smile, my friend. On your face." Varric shakes his head. "At least that's what it was called in Kirkwall's _Hanged Man_. Never really saw a live Chasind in my life, so can't tell how they do it, but it's definitely the same grin I've seen on anyone's face who tried that mead. Slightly delirious, very happy, for about ten heartbeats. Then the sadness hits." He considers. "I don't believe you the type that cries into his drink recalling happier times, but that's the usual response. It'd be interesting to see yours. You know, for research purposes."

"Yep," The Iron Bull nods. "It's a beautiful thing, Chasind Sack Mead, but there's a reason why it's so rare." He tilts his great head to the side for a second, then kicks his chair back and stands. "Say, that actually gives me an idea." He looks around. "Varric, if you don't mind keeping an eye on our general here, I'll see if I can get the Boss interested in a drink."

"I like the way you think, Tiny," Varric says, after some respectable silence. "Actually, strike that. I'm _terrified_ of the way you think."

"As you well should, master dwarf." The qunari grins and inclines his great horned head. "As you well should."

As he watches The Iron Bull slowly weaving his way amongst the crowd towards the doors, Cullen realizes that he should be at least _slightly_ mortified by how strongly he reacted to the mead: ale and wine is what he's mostly familiar with, but even those he consumed always in moderation. If he has to be completely honest with himself, drowning his issues in alcohol never even occurred to him. Replacing one addiction with another… no. Now, after sipping the golden, sweet and deceptively smooth drink in his tankard, however, he can definitely see the allure of it.

And _that_, if anything else, brings him out sharply from the cloud of happiness that Varric so astutely described. He inhales and sits up straight, catching the dwarf's surprised intake of breath.

"Curly, you're full of surprises," he says, with an amused chuckle. "I've never seen anyone practically _sober_ themselves in a few heartbeats. Is that a Templar trick?"

"I'm apparently a 'reinforcer of reality', Varric," Cullen says, putting the tankard down with a decisive click. "Or at least I have been. Solas says so."

"And that explains everything, of course," Varric nods. "I swear when once this shit is over and I finally write that book about the Inquisition, I'll need to include footnotes half a page long just to decipher what Chuckles says on a regular basis. Him and the Kid. No one else I know can talk like knights jump on a chessboard."

'That's…" Cullen starts to say, then his mind catches up to what actually was said and he trails off. "That's…actually a pretty accurate description," he mumbles, craning his neck towards where the Bull disappeared in the crowd of people now filling a significant amount of the Great Hall.

_Where are they? And what was that remark about giving her a drink, and…_

_Oh._

_There._ Above the heads of two masked and costumed Orlesians he spies the horns of the Qunari mercenary, and a flash of brilliant crimson… then the throng of Satinalia parts and he sees the Inquisitor stride forward, golden goblet in her hand, flanked by her flame-haired and raven-locked advisors.

They are absolutely gorgeous like that: all smiles and colors and sinuous grace and power swathed in silks and brocades. Both Leliana and Josephine are actually smiling, looking at Roxanne expectantly as she raises her goblet and addresses the crowd.

"I have been reminded by the good captain here," she starts, gracefully inclining her head towards the qunari, who in turn produces a perfect Orlesian style bow to some surprised chuckles, "that this is Satinalia, and I have not had a drop of alcohol yet." She shrugs. "He seems to think I need to set an example for some reason." Chuckles and cheering in the back. Cullen blinks.

Is she…_joking_ again?

"I am sure everyone expects me to give a speech," she continues, and yes, that smile in the corner of her mouth is definitely mischievous. _Maker_, _but she is breathtaking_, Cullen thinks. "I, however, would much rather you enjoyed the festivities than listen to me prattle on about comparisons between the Inquisition and historical examples from, oh say, the Exalted Age—as some of you no doubt might have expected me to do." She pauses, looks around, and Cullen practically can feel her gaze finally resting on his face. He resists the overwhelming urge of closing his eyes and just bask in the warmth of it.

"And so…" She continues, her voice catching a little bit, but her smile widening, "you do not need me to say anything else than this, and note that this is directly from your Inquisitor, so feel free to treat it as an order…" She opens her arms wide and bows gracefully, eyes still on him. "Eat, drink and be merry! Happy Satinalia!"

"Oh yeah!" The Iron Bull's voice booms in her wake. "Well, you've heard the Inquisitor: what're you waiting for, people?"

Laughter, cries of toasting and boasting fill the air and everyone gathers around Roxanne again, blocking her from his sight.

"Oh damn." Varric says, and downs his drink in one gulp. "Now I owe three sovereigns to Sparkler."

"I'm…sorry?" Cullen blinks. He's still slightly dazed from Roxanne's gaze bearing into his so openly and tries very hard not to hope against all hope what he thought he saw in it.

"Dorian said he could convince her to drop the ice princess act for just a _little_ bit." Varric stares into his cup wistfully. "Damned Tevene actually did it…Of course now I need to know if he and Tiny conspired on this whole thing." He pushes to his feet. "And how in the Fade he managed it, of course. Excuse me, Curly, but duty calls."

"Duty?" Cullen isn't sure this would qualify as any kind of duty in his books, but this evening is…different from what he's expected it to be already.

"The duty of an author and faithful chronicler of great deeds." Varric pats his shoulder. "You'll understand later." He grabs his tankard and sweeps away in that slightly ambling gait only Varric can use for sweeping, the tails of his Dwarven greatcoat billowing up behind him.

"Left all high and dry, huh?" He didn't hear Hawke sneak up on him, but of course she was always able to do that. He suspects it is that way because he never perceived her as a threat. "That's so… _Varric_. Well, allow me to assist you in complying with your great leader's orders." She plunks a plate and a tankard down in front of him and sits. "I can supply requisites for the 'eat and drink' part, but the rest is up to you." Her cool fingers touch his face, mouth turning down at the corners, frowning slightly. Her breath is strongly perfumed by the Starkhaven _uisce_ she favors, and Cullen realizes with a slight start that his friend is quite drunk already. "Speaking about that: you look terribly sad, honeychild. What's up?"

_I'm hallucinating that the love of my life is returning my feelings and it makes me want to hide in my office and seriously consider taking up drinking,_ Cullen almost finds himself saying, because this is Hawke, and the two of them by now practically have no secrets from each other. There is, however, no need to even open his mouth, he finds out the next moment.

"Ah." Hawke lets out a long sigh and stretches her legs under the table. While she's wearing a half-mask like everyone else in the Hall, the doublet and hose are an understated blue, with some modest gold decoration here and there. Cullen briefly wonders whether Josephine tried to browbeat the Champion of Kirkwall into wearing a costume. _She probably did_, he decides, _but the ensuing fireworks most likely weren't pretty. Or something Josephine ever would talk about_. "Say nothing, my majestic lion. Matters of the heart, the sad longing of love that can never be, all that stuff?" Her eyes narrow. "I _so_ do hope you are not planning on…_pining away_ in a corner all night?_"_

"_Hawke."_ Cullen sighs, slightly scandalized, more by the fact that she so accurately put her finger on his state of mind even while drunk than by _what_ exactly she said. "I'm not…I would never… what kind of question is that, anyway?"

"Liar," she says softly and pokes him between the ribs, grinning. "Sweet, adorable, lovely liar, you. Has it even occurred to you that this being Satinalia, it would be the absolutely perfect opportunity to, ah, _approach_ her?" She pokes him again, a bit more insistently, whispering. "There's _dancing_ going on, man! Everyone's letting down their hair, so to speak…even _Josephine_. I mean, look, seriously, she's actually laughing at something there Blackwall told her!"

Cullen risks a quick glance. He really wants to keep both of his eyes on Hawke because he knows from experience that when she's in her cups her pokes are usually followed by biceps squeezes and full-on hugs. He's not quite sure he's ready for that in the full view of Skyhold: while he knows that she means nothing by it, he still remembers the absolute mortification he felt when it happened first, back in Kirkwall.

_On the other hand, it's better if she's doing it to me than to, say, to The Iron Bull._ He sighs inwardly as he spots what she was talking about, and he has to acknowledge that Josephine, indeed, _does_ look relaxed, shaking her head at something the normally so dour Warden is saying. She is leaning close to listen, eyes shining and lightly rests a hand on his arm.

"So, fearless general of armies who can wear plaid in public and get away with it," Hawke drawls, taking a sip from her drink and grinning. Cullen is rather sure this will be followed up by something that make him either blush or stammer in outrage. "Tell me true: what is it that prevents you from asking her for a dance? Or telling her how you feel?"

"Hawke!" _Yes, indeed_. "This is absolutely not the time and place…"

"Dear Maker," Hawke sighs. "You really _are_ daft, my lion. This _is_ absolutely the time and the place, and that's what I'm trying to tell you, except I'm unfortunately a wee bit drunk. Seeing you tearing yourself apart because…" She chuffs impatiently. "Damn it, I'm done being all coy and ladylike about this," she mutters (_as if she was ever coy and ladylike about anything_, it goes through Cullen's mind dimly), then grabs his arm again and whispers, so close that her hair brushes his face: "Why in the Fade you're thinking she's not returning your feelings?"

He never ran from a hard fight, but this…he has to use every inch of his self-discipline still remaining from his Templar days not to either kick his chair back and leave or punch his best friend in the face.

"What, pray tell," he starts after a moment of tense silence, his voice slightly trembling as he tries to keep the rage that bubbles up from deep inside at bay, "gives you the right to pry into my personal life, let alone trying to dictate what I do with it?" He feels blazing hot as he straightens up and looks down at Hawke. "Being my friend does _not_ give you the right of incessant poking and nagging, absolutely disregarding my repeated requests for preserving my privacy or that of someone I hold in the highest regard. You…"

"Don't worry, Cullen." Hawke stands up, and the smile in the corner of her mouth is exactly the one she wore right before that last battle in the Gallows courtyard. "I cease my prating. I probably have gone the wrong way about this, my usual pigheaded way, and for that I apologize. I didn't think this was…damnation." She bites her lip. "I just want something to go right for people I care about once, is all," she whispers. "Just this sodding once…" She straightens and cracks her neck side-to-side like she used to do before battle. "Clearly, instead all I do is causing harm like a drunken bully. I…"

"Marian." Using her first name stops her cold from wanting to just walk away, the way she clearly was planning to. "Just… stop it and listen, please." He channels some of his commanding voice into what he says now. "Look: you walked right back into my life after a rather dramatic change on both of our parts, and now expect me to just allow you to direct it, because you _clearly_ know better regarding affairs of the heart." He lifts his hand, stopping her from saying anything. "You _do_ have the right to call me out on my bullshit, we established that a while back; but I also do reserve the right to let you know when you're going too far, remember?" She nods, still biting her lip, looking about ten years younger. "What you do _not_ have the right to, however, is get all passive-aggressive on me when we have a disagreement."

"Maker, you sound just like Fenris just now," she whispers. Cullen's heart wrenches with an almost physical shock as he realizes that she misses her husband, worries about his safety on this latest, crucially important mission…that she worries about the news about the Wardens, Corypheus' plans for them, Corypheus himself, the nightmare she thought she defeated once and who returned even stronger and free… and he is shaken by most of all by the knowledge that, ultimately, she holds herself responsible for the ex-Magister and would-be-god being on the loose again on Thedas.

"Well." He exhales rather forcefully and pats the chair next to him. All those things are matters that are not exactly something for discussion on this night: but now that he can clearly see what's eating at Marian Hawke's heart, he is resolved to have this conversation sooner than later. He owes it to her, at least until Fenris gets here. "I'm honored to be compared to your broody elf, my lady. Will you sit with me a little while longer, while I gather my courage to request a dance from you?"

"From _me_?" Hawke makes a little laughing sound, shakes her head, but obeys and takes the offered chair. "Darling man, you are mighty insufferable." Her vulnerability is almost entirely gone; she sniffles once as she looks at him. "The fact that you are gorgeous won't save you, you know?"

"Of course." Cullen nods: they understand the words which are not spoken, her wordless apology and his answer. "It's my hair, isn't it?"

"Andraste's tits, Cullen!" Hawke swears, but she is smiling. "Must you find out all my secrets?"

"You already know most of mine," Cullen says quietly, and sees Hawke sway a bit.

"You're slaying me, you idiot," she says, eyes shiny again: the fact that she swings so wildly between these extreme emotions alone should tell Cullen just how fragile she is. It occurs to him that it's not just Roxanne who is in need of help regarding battlefield stress and trauma. "I really don't want this feast be famous for the Champion of Kirkwall breaking down bawling in the middle of it all."

"Well, we can't have that, my lady Hawke, can we?" Cullen stands up and hopes he remembers the correct form of bow. "I believe this is the time that I request the honor of a dance from you—I believe I remember the steps of this one?"

"It's a Fereldan dance, you lucky dog." Hawke grins and places her hand in his. "I should hope so."

_The Orlesian guests are probably having a field day with this._ Cullen can almost feel their disapproval drilling a hole in his back. _Of course_, the Ferelden-born Commander will engage in one of their uncouth barbarian dances arm-in-arm with the similarly Ferelden-born upstart ex-Viscountess of Kirkwall. He can almost swear he can hear disdainful sniffles in the crowd. Luckily enough, they are not alone in joining the fray: this is not a complicated dance, requiring more stamina than finesse, and therefore there are quite a number of Inquisition members in the line as it twirls and snakes around the Great Hall's pillars and tables. The winding double line is full of giggles, laughter and stumbles, of course, as quite a number of the guests are even more in their cup than his dancing partner. Cullen feels his mouth twisting to a grin watching Hawke twirl and link her arm into his: she was right, he needs this. Both of them do, actually and as the steps are practically bringing his childhood back from before he even joined the Order, his steps lighten and he feels the years fall off his shoulder for the first time in a long while.

"That's what I'm talking about!" Hawke shouts at him above the din of dozens of thudding feet, laughing mouths and the sound of drums, violins, flutes and pipes as she kicks up her feet high, her hair flying around her face. They link their arms and spin, to the left and to the right. "There you go!" she laughs, and Cullen actually whoops as his boots hit the ground after a full turn, along with several other men in the line. It makes him remember that this is actually supposed to be like this…

Also that this is the part where everyone moves down and grabs another partner…

"And…change!" he hears the all too familiar yell of The Iron Bull on his left and as he spins again and stretches out his right arm to link with the next partner in the line, left hand on his hip, head up high and proud as the dance prescribes, he feels the cool fingers of Roxanne Trevelyan in his hand, and her Fade-green eyes smile into his from under a slightly disheveled mess of snow-shite hair.

"Commander!" She also has to raise her voice over the general loudness of the room, but her curtsy as they start the new set of the dance is perfect and poised. His reflexes take over and he follows his muscle memory as he swallows down the swarm of emotions assaulting him, along with a growing certainty.

_I'm going to kill Hawke. Also, the next sparring match with the Bull will be quite possibly bloody._

"I did not realize you danced!" Roxanne continues, and there is no denying that her smile is pleased. That little warm spark in the pit of his stomach roars to life again as she steps closer and her scent, honeyed almonds spiced with lavender and orange blossom, invades his nose.

"Um…nothing complicated like an Orlesian _gavotte_ or _volte_, but Fereldan contradances should be about my level," he answers honestly, and finds that he can't contain the grin spreading on his face. "I hope I can keep up…"

"Oh, you are doing absolutely fine," She assures him, as they turn and duck under the uplifted hands of others as the set progresses. "Much better than Bull, actually."

"Praising me with faint praise, Inquisitor?" It comes out of his mouth before he can even think about what he says: _damnation_. "Ah, that is…"

"You just try and dance with someone over seven feet tall. Just once." Roxanne glances at him with an amused glint in her eyes. "Without thinking that should he trod on your feet merely once you can say farewell to at least one toe."

_Turn, jump, step, step, link arms and here we go again…_

"Was that a…joke, Inquisitor?" Cullen decides he might as well press his luck. _Just in case this is what I think it is._

_And while at it, Maker, I also would like a new sword and a pony for Satinalia._

"_Oh, la_." There is that pure Orlesian shrug of hers. "I am practically under orders from two of my advisors and several of my Inner Circle members to try and enjoy myself tonight. It is Satinalia, after all."

"And uh… are you?" Yes, he continues to stick his neck out; it's probably the lingering aftereffect of the Chasind Sack Mead, and has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that as the next movement of the dance dictates, he's currently curving an arm around the Inquisitor's waist as he twirls her around. "Enjoying yourself?"

"You know… right now I think I do." Roxanne's answer literally takes his breath away; her hand tightens around his… and she shakes her head in mock exasperation as suddenly the tune changes and everyone around them stops, forming a circle and starts clapping in rhythm to the music.

He forgot about this particular charming aspect of this dance. Everyone's laughing: The Iron Bull and Hawke, of course (yes, there _will_ be reckoning, definitely), her face the same as it always was after a very successful night at the Hanged Man in Kirkwall (or, as Aveline Vallen was always fond of saying 'like a cat that just swallowed a canary'). There's Varric with Lieutenant Harding, and Rylen, his second-in-command with Ser Lysette leaning on him and grinning ear-to-ear, something he never thought he would see. Dorian Pavus, lifting an aristocratic eyebrow with a mock bow towards them, Leliana smiling next to him with almost the same expression on her face, as if to say 'well, come _on_…'; and yes, that's Josephine with Blackwall, their hands almost but not quite touching.

"Well?" Roxanne says, head slightly tilted to the side. She is still smiling, but that tiny frown he knows so well by now, signaling her slight confusion, starts to appear between her brows. "Same steps in the solo, remember?"

"Oh. Maker. Right," he mutters, almost stumbling across his boots as he steps closer and in the way her lips slightly part and her breath escapes her he yet again finds a reason to exist just a little bit longer.

At least until the dance is over and the music stops for real and she is still _there_, in his arms, so close he could almost just bend his head and see for real if she really tastes of lavender honey the way he imagined in his dreams.

_In front of practically everyone in Skyhold. Brilliant, Rutherford._

"Oh, that was lovely!" Roxanne says breathlessly, an escaped wisp of her hair trailing across her left cheek over her half-mask, as they bow to each other and to the other dancers. She is almost as enthusiastic and pleased as she was when her new armor was delivered by Dagna and she field-tested it by asking Dorian to try and freeze _and_ then fireball her. "One of the reasons I always liked Satinalia: the dancing." She links her arm to his. "Thank you: it is so rare these days that I can honestly just…" She makes that most unladylike snorting noise he first found jarring, but by now it's just one of those quirks making her more precious to him than anything else on Thedas. "I apologize: Lia used the expression 'letting my hair down' when we talked just before the feast started and it just occurred to me that I actually never do that." She pauses, and then adds, with her customary precision: "Neither figuratively nor metaphorically speaking."

Cullen clears his throat, because imagining her hair tumbling down over her shoulders and the feel of his tresses as he buries his face in their waves is both inappropriate and wrought of danger.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," he says cautiously as they walk slowly to the side and he manages to steer her to a quieter corner of the Great Hall without bumping into anyone. He lets out a slight sigh of relief when they can both sit at a small table. "Probably not the best practice for that grand ball of the Empress at Halamshiral Josie and Lia are working so hard to prepare for, but…"

"Nonsense." Roxanne waves imperiously. "Social occasions such as this are excellent for both making all of us more comfortable with more than the battlefield or our piles of paperwork, and, at the same time, to quote my friend Varric Tethras, 'have fun'." She scrunches up her nose, suddenly serious. "Well, pish, that sounded _way_ too pretentious again."

Cullen wants to tell her that's not true, that it made perfect sense to him, that even the way she tries to swear and fails miserably takes his breath away. That the only reason he even came to this feast today was because he knew just how much she was looking forward to it and that he really wanted to see her smile and shine and be the bright and beautiful lady of Skyhold he would give his life for any moment she asked.

That he loves her, by the Maker, he _loves_ her so, desperately, endlessly, with the broken heart, body and soul of an ex-Templar, with and despite of the fifteen years between them, and will do so until his dying breath, even if he knows it is hopeless.

"Cullen?" her hand on his arm shakes him out of his thoughts, as he realizes he drifted completely away into very dangerous territory. "Is everything all right?" Roxanne sounds concerned. "I apologize if I…" She stumbles over her words, a very rare occurrence, and there's a slight blush on her cheeks"…if you do not feel well or if I keep you away from something… or someone, or if you would rather…" She takes a deep breath. "I do not wish to monopolize your time. If you would be elsewhere, I…"

"Maker's Breath, no!" It comes out a little bit more forcefully than he wanted. "Where else I would rather be than here, with you?"

_Oh. Shit._

He sees her eyes widen and hears her sharply inhale.

"I'm sorry…" he mumbles, sudden and terrible embarrassment almost choking him with its ashen taste as he hangs his head to stare at the scratches on the wood of the table.

_There you go, Rutherford… you finally you did it. Mouth. Insert foot. So much._

"All _right_," he hears the steady, decisive voice he knows so well from War Table discussions when an argument had to be ended once and for all. "Come on. We need to talk."

"We…?" Cullen looks up, feeling his cheeks still aflame with shame at his outburst.

"Yes." Roxanne stands, face determined and focused just as he'd seen her that day in Haven's Chantry, when the fate of their fledgling Inquisition was hanging in the balance. "We. Alone. This is not the place." She tilts her head towards the side door that hides one of the myriad corridors eventually leading to the battlements, and her expression is impenetrable and closed: her Inquisitor face. "It should be rather quiet up by the western tower with most of Skyhold celebrating so: follow me?"

She sweeps away, skirts swishing in her wake, crimson and blood-red, and Cullen cannot but follow, as if he were to go to his execution.

_This is the part where I receive the well-deserved lecture from our leader about inappropriate behavior, dangers of fraternization and infatuation with one's superior. And I can't blame anyone but myself for it._

He's vaguely aware of the whispers and eyes that follow them as they leave, but all of that comes to him through a dull, lead-colored haze that leaves him numb and uncaring. The headache returns as an all-familiar friend from another life, throbbing insistently behind his temple in rhythm with his thoughts repeating '_and I have no choice but accept the consequences of my own actions and respectfully tender my resignation'…_

"There was something you wished to discuss, Inquisitor?" he hears himself, surprised how even and calm his own voice is through that haze of the swirling ashes of his hopes and dreams. They somehow made it up to the battlements by the western tower, and Maker, he's going to miss the view from here, especially at sunset. Or like now, evening mountain air so crisp it practically dances where the light of the moon and distant stars touch it and make it shimmer as if it would be alive from the caress of night.

"Definitely." She stops her determined march right at the parapet and turns, back to the stone: straight, proud, unbending, every inch the noble leader. In the cold light of moon and stars, the pearls of her headdress and mask sparkle like tiny fragments of frozen starlight. "I am merely finding that despite all my determination, currently I am at loss for words."

"Inquisitor, I…" he starts, standing at attention the way it's prescribed in the rules of the Order, hands behind his back, chin up, spine rigid, but he can't finish.

"Cullen," she says his name with such a quiet intensity that he almost forgets the words about to spill out of his mouth about responsibility, and consequences and resignations. "Fade take it, I _can_ do this," she whispers with a determination of a born fighter and her jaw tightens at the same time her right hand goes to her side to grip an invisible sword pommel.

_Here it comes_, he thinks, and steels himself for the inevitable.

"I find myself thinking about you." The words rush out of her mouth like a jumbled-up mess of packed snow threatening to grow into an avalanche on a hillside. "All the time, and…"

_Oh. Wait. What?_

_What is she saying?_

"What are you saying?" His voice is hoarse as if he was shouting inwardly for hours. _She is saying the things I wanted to say to her. She is…_

"What do you think I'm saying?" Her voice cracks. "What does this sound like? I mean, besides me being utterly undignified, possibly unhinged and perhaps a tad drunk?" There is a tiny tremor in her left hand as she clutches at her right with it. "I am not a poet, or a court-born lady, I am just very good at killing things. I do not have fancy words, but I have courage… and I have pushed this down and away way too long." There is a snort. "And Maker knows I have had practically endless versions of this particular scene playing out in my head, to be honest."

_I believe this would be a good time to say something, Rutherford._

"I ah, can't say I haven't wondered what I would say to you in this sort of situation," he offers, and in the next second he really wants to kick himself, hard.

"Oh, _really_?" She sounds angry: those Fade-green eyes practically glitter. "_Now_ you are telling me." She leans back a bit, and looks him fully in the eye. "Well, this is _that_ sort of situation, as you so eloquently put it, Commander. What is stopping you?"

_Maker's Breath. Is she…mad at me because I did not say anything sooner?_

_Because she wanted me to…_

_Because she…_

"You're the Inquisitor," he offers, as if that would explain everything, but her short, sharp headshake makes it painfully obvious that he can't just leave it at that. "We're at war," he continues naming his reasons, finding himself stepping closer as if the fury glinting in her eyes would draw him in.

_Out with it, Rutherford, and make it real this time: she deserves honesty in this just as well as when you are advising her at the War Table or supporting her when she's breaking down from her battle dreams_.

"I didn't think it was possible," he rasps finally, words tumbling out, dragging his dreams, just as ragged, just as damaged beyond repair, with them. "I'm…broken and old beyond the years I've lived, with no hopes beyond what possible redemption I might find in seeing the Inquisition succeed and Corypheus defeated. I'm a washed up ex-Templar on his last chance to…do something worthwhile. And you…" He takes that last step and can almost feel the heat from her body against his, and _Maker_, it's… "You're young and brilliant and full of life and beauty and deserve so much more than…"

"And yet: I am still here," Roxanne whispers. She is so brave and fearless in this as well: the way her eyes shine, the way her hand rises to cradle his cheek—only the slight tremble of her fingers betrays that this is…

"So you are." His own voice is almost lost in the sound of his heartbeat thundering. He turns his face into her palm, reveling in its touch even through his mask and cannot help but answer its call by curling his fingers into the dip of her waist. "It seems too much to ask…"

And oh, the way she tilts her head back just a fraction of an inch, eyes slightly closed, their fierce gaze softened by long lashes, and the tip of her tongue darting out just a tiny bit, wetting her lips…

_Want_.

"But I _want_ to…" It's almost a groan, and the coiling heat in his belly compels him to close that last distance, to finally, finally do what he dreamed about for what seems to be an eternity and Maker, _she's not moving away_…

"Commander." He didn't hear the tower door opening, he didn't hear the steps, but now he definitely hears the voice, and that hits him with the force of about ten buckets of ice water.

_Jim._ The demoted day runner who can't keep it in his pants so gets the night duty on a feastday.

"You wanted a copy of Sister Leliana's report?" _Murder seems to be a very good option right now._

"What." It is not a question, the way he says it. In fact, it's barely a human word. With much more like a coughing snarl of a great lion about to end in a roar, Commander Cullen Rutherford steps back and slowly turns his head to fix the unfortunate scout with a stare that…

…is completely wasted on him as he's busy studying the cover of said report with an 'I'm on an important mission' expression.

"Sister Leliana's report?" Jim repeats, very foolishly stepping closer, eyes still on the papers in his hand. "You wanted them to be delivered 'without delay?' "Cullen can practically hear the quotation marks around the words and he feels his lip pull away from his teeth, hands curled into fists as he stalks closer.

The blasted man finally looks up, and Cullen towers over him with the expression of a lethal predator about to strike down an unsuspecting gazelle.

There is a tiny, but significant pause as Jim takes in the sight of his commanding officer about to murder him, and his eyes widen seeing the Herald of Andraste and Her Worship Inquisitor Trevelyan leaning against the parapet, smoothing a loose tendril of her hair behind her ear and trying to look like she's not even there.

"Or…" Cullen has to give him credit; Jim is able to assess the situation really fast when it's about life or death. "Or…to your _office_." He backs away, his face almost as red as Roxanne's dress. "Right."

_Is he leaving? He's leaving._

_Good._

"Cullen, if you have to…" Roxanne's voice is soft and resigned, and Cullen would have _none_ of that right now, thank you very much.

He's done with resigned and timid, in fact. He's by her side in two long strides, hands coming up whip-fast, one to her hip, the other to her jaw to align her face just _so_. Thoughts don't enter into this because if they do he wouldn't have the courage and would find a good reason why he shouldn't just _kiss_ her, crushed as she is between his body and the parapet's stone, and with an almost-bruising force too. It pulls her up on her toes and her hands fly to his arms with a small cry that escapes lips smashed against his mouth and teeth: she clearly didn't expect it to be like this, Fade, _he_ didn't expect it to be like this either, surely this cannot be what she…

And then (Cullen swears he can feel his life just tilt and spin into a whole different focus the way one feels after breaking the surface of the water, almost-drowning), oh, and _then_ Roxanne's lips soften under his, and her hands lose their grip on his arms and one sneaks up to drape around his neck. This is not a dream, she _is_ kissing him back and…

Reality reasserts itself as the need for air overrides the certainty of _this is happening, _and he pulls away from the taste of honey and lavender just enough to be able to see her face.

"I'm sorry…" Of _course_ the first thing he has to say after that is an apology. _Dammit, Rutherford, what's wrong with you? _"That was… really nice."

_Nice_? _That's the best you can do, really_? _Get it together, soldier_. The only reason he doesn't whimper in desperation is that there is, like the most glorious and gorgeous of morning sunrises, a smile on Roxanne's face, along with that delicate shade of rose petals blooming on her cheeks and one of her fingers pokes him in the chest to emphasize that's coming next.

"_That_ was what I wanted," she says, impossibly and improbably imperious, voice dropping low and every syllable a caress and a promise the way even his most daring dreams couldn't…

"Oh." If Corypheus' dragon drops out of the sky right now, Cullen feels he could just swat it down with one arm. With the one that's not moving right now with sudden confidence to encircle Roxanne's waist and pull her to him again, that is.

"Good," he whispers, reaching for her and apparently she can't be patient either and tugs his head down, meeting him in the middle.

Fingers tangled in his hair, her other hand grasping at the fur at his shoulder, long-limbed body flush against him… However much Cullen wishes to take his time and be gentle and savor the moment, it's impossible because she is all fire and steel, filling his hands and mouth, everything he's ever dreamed of and more. Her tiny whimper as she opens her mouth under his and lets him deepen the kiss is almost enough to undo all of his restraints, forgetting that they are out in the open, on the battlements of Skyhold for practically anyone looking up from the central courtyard to see…

"Maker!" he gasps as they part for air for the second time. "I can't…seem to stop kissing you."

"You don't have to," she whispers back, laughter bubbling in her voice and her hand slides into his. "Come on."

He would go with her anywhere right now, to the Black City if she asks, follow her to blasphemy and fire and damnation for just another taste of her lips and the feel of her body against his…but all she does is hurries along the wall until she reaches the little shelter built into the side of the tower and ducks in, skirts held with one hand, the other in his. It's almost pitch dark in there, but through the little arrow slit on the wall the stars and the moon dusts in enough light for him to find her again.

Cullen feels giddy with joy he hasn't felt in ages, his arms full of her, his heart full of her… His eyes flutter closed as they kiss again, and this time it's slow and sweet and potent like the mead he had at the feast, and it goes straight to his head just as it did. He sways, body shaking, thoughts in a jumble and very much in need of finding solid ground. He knows there's a bench here for the soldiers' comfort such as it is, and stumbles for it. The back of his knees hitting the cold stone, he sits with a thud, and she tumbles into his arms, gorgeous and warm and alive, lips kiss-swollen and pupils dilated, nimble fingers on his face tugging his mask and hers off in one fluid motion, discarding them on the floor.

"_Oh la_," she says with a breathy sigh, draws her legs up to curl up in his lap and continues kissing him with her lightning-fast ability to master things she's shown for the first time absolutely in evidence.

_For the first time…_

_Damn._

And that thought right there stops him cold.

"Roxanne…" he says gently, pulling back and clearing his throat, balancing on the knife edge of reason and sanity and using all of his Templar discipline not to give in to the passion that sweeps over him with the strength of a long-dammed river finally free. '_This is going to be difficult to resist'_ does not even begins to express his feelings right now.

"Mmmm," she hums in answer. Her lips somehow made their way to that sensitive spot just below his ear, and the sound goes straight through him with a white-hot flash of pure, unadulterated desire. His hands flex on her back, pressing her into him... "I am _so_ very proud of you for not murdering Jim," she mumbles, threading her fingers through his hair and combing it with slow strokes that make him almost purr.

"I'm so very proud of me too, but we need to talk," he says with great effort, dropping his chin on the top of her head and inhaling slowly, getting his sanity back. "Kissing, too, yes, but also talk," he adds, because she makes a small protesting noise.

"As long as no words such as 'duty', 'Inquisition' and 'should not' are mentioned, I do not object." She snuggles into his chest even tighter, wrapping her arms around him with a deep, contended sigh.

"Agreed," he chuckles, feeling somewhat saner than just seconds ago. "I will also try not to apologize too much."

"I hope so." Roxanne pulls back just enough so she can look him into the eyes. "As there is nothing for which to apologize, at least on your part." She blushes slightly. "As much as I am able to recall, it was me who was somewhat….forthcoming."

"And may the Maker bless Chasind Sack Mead for that," Cullen says promptly, trying to keep a serious face, but they both burst out laughing seconds later, because _Andraste's frilly knickers, it is the truth._

"Bull is incorrigible, I agree," she says once their chuckles subside, and gently bumps her nose against his, stealing his breath again with the gentleness of the gesture. "But I have not felt this… alive in a long time."

"Seconded." He takes a deep breath. "We, however, need to, ah, discuss the need for some measure of…"

"The word 'restraint' is also frowned upon tonight, Cullen." She practically growls as she leans forward and presses tiny, slow and exquisitely lovely kisses on his jawline starting from the chin and moving towards the corner of his mouth where his scar bisects it. "I understand, I believe," she continues while she does that and Cullen fights for his eyes just not to roll back in his head, " where you wish to take this discussion and while…" she pauses again to explore, just as he dreaded and hoped at the same time, the scar with her lips and the tip of her tongue, "…I am aware of the fact that you are infinitely more experienced in these matters that I, but I assure you, that while I am, in technical terms, a 'blushing virgin', that does not mean…"

"Maker's breath, Roxanne!" He cannot help it; he jerks his head away and stares at her. "That was not…I mean it's not how I…"

"Then how…?" _Andraste, but she looks young_. "I assume that is what you wished to discuss; what I choose to lay on the table, so to speak, is my willingness to follow your lead and try not to be horribly embarrassed by the fact that I practically jumped you tonight."

"You…" He darts in and plants a quick kiss on the tip of her nose before he could think himself out of it, eliciting a squeak. "Are. Analyzing. Everything. Again." Each word is followed by a kiss, and each kiss results in her becoming more and more relaxed in his arms. "Stop. All I wished to say, my one and only lady…" and there she goes absolutely still for a second, her breath hitching, "that should you trust my lead and allow me to…" he slowly, slowly moves from her nose _down_ in a straight line, breathing against her skin, allowing the fire burning in his heart suffuse his words just for a little bit"…believe that I can hope and dream again…"

He pauses for effect as he grazes his teeth against the gorgeously plump flesh of her upper lip, listening to the low moan escaping her, and can't help but sound a little bit smug as he finishes the sentence:

"…then, indeed, I shall strive to provide… everything… you… wanted." He tightens his hold on her, not intending to let her out from the circle of his arms now that he found her, now that she's here, now that she clearly does not want to leave. "And now I think I've said everything I wished to discuss." He slides a hand under the nape of her neck. "Anything to add?"

"Proposal accepted," she sighs, trembling, but fearless. His lady. His love. His lioness. "Oh. Drat."

"What is it?"

"I _completely_ forgot your Satinalia gift." She sounds distraught, and her pout is so very adorable that Cullen decides to remain bold (and it starts to feel almost natural fearfully quickly, he must admit).

"I thought _this_ was my Satinalia gift," he breathes into her ear, being rewarded with a slight but rather stinging smack at the back of his head.

"You, _ser_, are incorrigible, and I most assuredly shall not incorrige you in this behavior." That would be much more convincing if her horrible pun wasn't followed by a decidedly impish grin, much more fitting for her twenty-two years than her usual aloofness.

"It's all right," he says, more seriously, smoothing a loose tendril of her hair back behind her ear and reveling in its silkiness. "I have everything I need, right here."

"Good," she nods, settling herself perfectly against his chest. "Do I get a goodnight kiss, then?"

His laugh is low and wild and free and full of the joy that fills his heart near to bursting. It feels right, and it feels glorious and it is, finally, full of future.

"As you wish," he murmurs his promise from the morning after she saved his sanity, and proceeds to make good on it.

He cannot stop smiling.


End file.
